BOYS  ” 


c  c 


A  COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS 


BY 


HENRY  J.  BYRON 


New  American  Edition,  Correctly  Reprinted  from  the 
Original  Authorized  Acting  Edition,  with  the  Original 
Cast  of  the  Characters,  Argument  of  the  Play, 
Time  of  Representation,  Description  of  the 
Costumes,  Scene  and  Property  Plots,  Dia¬ 
grams  of  the  Stage  Settings,  Sides  of 
Entrance  and  Exit,  Relative  Posi¬ 
tions  of  the  Performers,  Expla¬ 
nation  of  the  Stage  Direc¬ 
tions,  etc.,  and  all  of 
the  Stage  Business 


Copyright,  1890,  by  Harold  Roorbach. 


NEW  YORK 


HAROLD  ROORBACH 

PUBLISHER 


“OUR  BOYS.”  • 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS. 


Vaudeville  Theatre 3 
Stra?id ,  London , 
January  i6f  1875. 


Sir  GeOFF RY  Champneys  (tf  County  Magnate ) 
Talbot  Champneys  (^5 

V'  Perkyn  Middlewick,  of  Devonshire  House  (« 
retired  Butterman ) 

Charles  Middlewick  (te  .Sh/z) 

Kempster  ( Geoffrjs  Man  Servant ) 
PODDLES  (  Middlewick?  s  Butler ) 

Violet  Melrose  («?z  Heiress') 

Mary  Melrose  (Jier  poor  Cousin) 

Clarissa  Champneys  (Az>  Geoffry's  Sister) 
Belinda  ( a  Lodging  House  Slave) 


Mr.  William  Farren. 
Mr.  Thomas  Thorne. 

Mr.  David  James. 

Mr.  Charles  Warner. 
Mr.  W.  Lestocq. 

Mr.  Howard. 

Miss  Kate  Bishop. 
Miss  Roselle. 

Miss  Sophie  Larkin. 
Miss  Cicely  Richards. 


Time  of  Representation — Two  Hours. 


Act  I. - AT  THE  BUTTERMAN’S. 

Act  II. - AT  THE  BARONET’S. 


Seven  months  are  supposed  to  have  elapsed. 


Act  III. — MRS.  PATCHEM’S  THREE-PAIR  BACK. 


-2. 3  cftd'S  f 


“OUR  BOYS." 


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f^2. 

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D 


THE  ARGUMENT. 


V* 


Perkyn  Middlewick  is  a  retired  butterman  ignorant  and  coarse  in 
manner,  but  kind  and  generous  of  heart.  Sir  Geoffry  Champneys,  a 
county  magnate  proud  of  his  birth  and  position  and  tolerating  Middlewick 
only  because  of  his  wealth,  has  come  to  the  latter’s  house  to  await  the 
arrival  of  their  two  sons,  “  Our  Boys,”  who,  while  travelling  on  the  conti¬ 
nent,  have  met  in  Paris  and  are  now  coming  home  together.  It  seems  that 
young  Middlewick,  while  at  Bonn,  had  met  a  Miss  Violet  Melrose, 
young,  handsome  and  rich,  who  is  now  visiting  Sir  Geoffry’s  sister 
Clarissa.  An  attachment  had  sprung  up  between  the  two  young  people ; 
but,  owing  to  a  quarrel  involving  a  duel  with  a  student,  he  had  concealed 
his  identity  from  her. 

The  action  begins  with  the  arrival  of  “Our  Boys.”  Charles  Middle¬ 
wick,  a  bright  and  dashing  young  fellow,  is  overflowing  with  enthusiasm 
at  what  he  has  seen,  and  most  demonstrative  at  meeting  his  old  dad  again. 
Talbot  Champneys,  on  the  contrary,  is  rather  plain  in  looks,  dull,  very 
near-sighted,  greatly  over-dressed  and,  to  use  his  own  expression,  some¬ 
what  of  a  muff — but  withal  good-hearted  and  not  without  common  sense. 

Sir  Geoffry  has  mapped  out  a  parliamentary  career  for  his  son,  and 
determined  to  marry  him  to  Violet  Melrose,  to  which  arrangement 
Talbot,  never  having  seen  the  young  lady,  naturally  objects.  With 
Violet  is  her  cousin  Mary  Melrose,  a  frolicsome  country  girl,  beautiful 
in  face  and  figure  but  poor  in  purse ;  and  it  is  Sir  Geoffry’s  constant 
anxiety  that,  by  some  chance,  Talbot  may  fall  in  love  with  her.  Violet, 
being  greatly  shocked  at  old  Middlewick’s  lack  of  breeding,  coarse  man¬ 
ners  and  abominable  grammar,  snubs  him  unmercifully  on  meeting  him; 
this  so  angers  Charles  that  he  retaliates  by  devoting  himself  to  Mary,  to 
the  delight  of  Middlewick  who  deems  her  worth  a  thousand  of  her 
haughty  cousin.  Charles,  in  spite  of  Violet’s  aversion  to  his  father, 
which  he  cannot  believe  real,  still  loves  her.  But  old  Middlewick,  on 
finding  that  Charles  is  devoted  to  the  young  lady,  orders  him  to  drop  her 
at  once,  Sir  Geoffry,  meanwhile,  having  commanded  Talbot  to  insinuate 
himself  into  Violet’s  good  graces.  But  “Our  Boys”  and  our  girls  mate 
contrary  to  orders ;  whereupon  Sir  Geoffry  tells  his  son  to  go  and  starve, 
Middlewick  follows  suit  by  disowning  Charles,  and  the  two  boys  depart 
leaving  the  girls  in  a  state  of  utter  despair,  while  the  old  men  are  congrat¬ 
ulating  themselves  and  each  other  on  being  downright  Roman  fathers. 

Seven  months  later  finds  “  Our  Boys  ”  in  the  garret  of  a  third  rate  London 
lodging  house,  thin,  shabby  and  otherwise  showing  extreme  poverty,  but 
firm  in  the  resolution  not  to  apply  to  their  relatives  for  aid.  During  their 
absence  from  their  lodgings,  Sir  Geoffry  and  Middlewick  a.ppear,  hav¬ 
ing  learned  of  their  sons’  whereabouts,  and  listen  to  an  account  of  their 
pitiable  condition  from  Belinda,  a  comical  maid-of-all-work,  which  brings 
them  to  the  verge  of.  relenting,  each  waiting  for  the  other  to  break  down 
first.  Hearing  steps  outside,  they  retire  hastily  just  as  Clarissa  comes  in; 
she  brings  a  fowl  with  her  and,  in  company  with  Belinda  goes  to  the 
kitchen  to  prepare  it,  leaving  her  bonnet  on  a  chair.  Violet  and  Mary 
now  appear  and,  on  seeing  the  bonnet,  suspect  “  Our  Boys”  of  being  false  ; 


4 


“ OUR  BOYS." 


so  that  on  the  boys’  return  a  stormy  scene  ensues,  ending  by  the  girls 
indignantly  taking  their  departure.  The  two  fathers,  though  unable,  from 
their  place  of  concealment,  to  understand  what  has  been  said,  have  recog¬ 
nized  female  voices  and,  coming  out  of  their  ambush,  upbraid  their  sons  as 
profligates,  whereupon  they,  in  turn,  are  ordered  off  the  premises.  The 
two  girls  now  return,  after  discovering  their  mistake,  heartily  ashamed  of 
their  suspicions;  Aunt  Clarissa  follows,  and  explanations  ensue.  Old 
Middlewick  breaks  down  completely,  declaring  that  he  can  play  the 
Roman  father  no  longer,  and  Sir  Geoffry  soon  follows  his  lead.  The 
reconcilliation  is  now  complete,  and  the  would-be  Roman  fathers  recognize 
their  mistake  in  attempting  to  regulate  the  matrimonial  arrangements  of 
“Our  Boys.” 


COSTUMES. 


Act  I. 


Sir  Geoffry  Champneys. — Fashionable  walking  suit,  cane,  gloves, 
etc.,  gray  wig,  and  gray  side  whiskers  and  mustache.  Watch.  Eye¬ 
glasses. 

Talbot  Champneys. — Velvet  coat  and  vest,  light  trousers,  eye-glasses, 
flashy  necktie,  blonde  wig  parted  in  centre,  blonde  side  whiskers  and  small 
blonde  mustache.  Wears  eye-glasses. 

Perkyn  Middlewick. — Light  coat  and  vest,  dark  trousers,  bald  wig, 
short  reddish  hair,  also  short  reddish  side  whiskers. 

Charles  Middlewick. — Fashionable  walking  suit,  black  wig  and 
mustache,  gloves,  etc. 

Poddles. — Full  dress.  Carries  watch. 

Kempster. — Livery. 

Violet. — Handsome  walking  dress. 

Mary. — Suit  somewhat  plainer  than  Violet’s. 

Clarissa. — Old  lady’s  dress. 


Act  II. 

All  in  full  evening  dress.  Middlewick’s  coat  and  vest  trimmed  with 
brass  buttons. 


Act  III. 

Sir  Geoffry. — Overcoat,  high  hat  and  cane. 

Talbot. — Short  gray  suit,  quite  shabby. 

Middlewick. — Large  ulster,  old-fashioned  hat,  cane,  etc. 

Charles. — Dark  suit,  quite  shabby. 

Violet  and  Mary. — Plain  walking  dresses. 

Clarissa. — Plain  dress  and  shawl,  very  large  bonnet  trimmed  with 
quite  an  assortment  of  flowers. 


11  OUR  BOYS ”  5 

Belinda. — Old  shabby  short  dress,  torn  apron,  shoes  unbuttoned,  face 
and  arms  smeared  with  dirt,  hair  generally  mussed  up. 

PROPERTIES. 

Act  I. — Cigar  for  Talbot  Champneys.  Furniture  as  per  scene  plot. 

Act  II. — Money  to  rattle  in  Middlewick’s  pocket.  Pipe  and  tobacco 
for  Talbot.  Furniture  as  per  scene  plot. 

Act  III. — Small  piece  of  looking-glass  and  old  shoe  on  mantel.  Box 
of  blacking  and  brushes.  Books,  writing  materials  and  roll  of  Mss.  on 
table  R.  Coal  scuttle,  with  a  little  coal,  shovel,  tongs,  hearth  broom  and 
poker  at  fire.  Empty  coal  scuttle  for  Belinda.  Printed  papers.  Basket 
and  eatables  for  Clarissa.  Tray.  Remains  of  breakfast  on  table,  r.  c., 
common  teapot  with  broken  spout,  part  of  a  loaf  of  bread,  two  egg  cups 
with  shells,  brown  sugar  in  old  cup,  small  piece  of  butter,  etc.  Furniture 
as  per  scene  plot. 


STAGE  SETTINGS. 
Act  I. 


j  Window* 

/  • 

J  Chair 


Carden  Backing 
- 1  Doors  1 — 


~Windorv 1 


Chair 


Chair 


Door 


J4 


o 

Arm-Chair 


Tahle  b  Chairs 


Door 


Chair 


Act  II. 


Conservatory  Backing 


Jfindotr 


1  r- 


JX 


J* 


Chair 

Chair 
'ire-Piace 


'oar 


6 


“OUR  BOYS.” 

Act  in. 


Street  Backing 


Wmdovr^ 


R 


1 oor 


Table  &  Chairs 


0* Ch 

Table 


air 


Corridor  Backing 
Boor 


St 


ore 


o 

Arm  *  Chair 


n 


oor 


SCENE  PLOT. 

Act  I. — Drawing-room  in  Middlewick’s  house,  boxed  in  3  g.,  backed 
with  garden  drop  in  4  g.  Double  doors  c.  in  flat.  French  windows  R. 
and  L.,  in  flat.  Doors  r.  2  E.  and  L.  2  e.  Chairs  against  flat  between 
doors  and  windows.  Chair  R.,  up  stage.  Arm  chair  R.  C.  Table  and 
chairs  L.  C.  Arm  chair  L.,  down  stage.  Sofa  down  R. 

Act  II. — Drawing-room  in  Sir  Geoffry’s  house,  boxed  in  3  g., 
backed  with  conservatory  in  4  G.  Double  doors  c.,  and  French  windows 
r.  and  L.  in  flat.  Doors  R.  2  E.  and  L.  2  E.  Fireplace,  mantel  and  mirror 
R.  I  E.  Statues  on  pedestals  against  flat  between  doors  and  windows. 
Sofa  down  L.  Arm  chairs  R.  and  l.  Chair  up  R.  One  tete-a-tete  up  L.; 
another  c.,  with  ottoman  before  it. 

Act  III. — Shabby  sitting-room  boxed  in  3  G.,  with  corridor  and  street 
backings  in  4  g.  Door  L.  c.,  and  window  R.  C.  in  flat.  Doors  R.  2  e.  and 
L.  1  E.  Fireplace,  mantel  and  stove  L.  3  E.  Shabby  old  arm  chair  by 
stove.  Table  and  chairs  up  R.  c.,  with  remains  of  breakfast.  Small  table 
and  chair  down  R.  Chair  up  L. 

STAGE  DIRECTIONS. 

The  player  is  supposed  to  be  facing  the  audience.  R.,  means  right;  L., 
left;  C.,  centre;  R.  C.,  right  of  centre  ;  L.  C.,  left  of  centre  ;  D.  F.,  door  in 
the  flat  or  scene  running  across  the  back  of  the  stage ;  R.  F.,  right  side  of 
the  flat;  L.  F.,  left  side  of  the  flat;  R.  D.,  right  door;  L.  D.,  left  door; 
C.  D.,  centre  door;  I  E.,  first  entrance  ;  2  E.,  second  entrance;  U.  E.,  upper 
entrance  ;  I,  2,  or  3  G.,  first,  second  or  third  grooves ;  UP  stage,  towards  the 
back ;  down  stage,  towards  the  audience. 

R.  R.  C.  C.  L.  C.  .  L. 

Note. — The  text  of  this  play  is  correctly  reprinted  from  the  original 
authorized  acting  edition,  without  change.  The  introduction  has  been 
carefully  prepared  by  an  expert,  and  is  the  only  part  of  this  book  pro¬ 
tected  by  copyright. 


“OUR  BOYS.” 


ACT  I. 

Scene. — Handsomely  furnished  drawing-room  at  Middlewick’s 

house — Poddles  enters,  L.  D. 

Pod.  {after pause,  looking  at  watch}  Half-past  two,  I  do  declare, 
and  the  young  gents  not  arrived  yet  ;  train’s  late,  no  doubt.  No 
wonder  master’s  anxious;  I  dare  say  Sir  Geoffry’s  just  as  anxious 
about  his  dear  son.  Bless  me,  to  hear  ’em  talking  about  "  Our 
Boys,"  as  they  call  ’em,  one  would  think  there  were  no  other  sons 
and  heirs  in  the  whole  country  but  these  two  young  gents  a  com¬ 
ing  home  to  their  governors  this  afternoon. 

Enter,  Kempster,  c. 

Kemp.  Mr.  Poddies,  any  news  of  the  young  gents  yet  ?  Sir 
Geoffrey  has  just  driven  over,  and - 

Pod.  They  ought  to  be  here  by  this  time.  Mr.  Charles  wrote 
mentioning  the  time  and — (Sir  Geoffry  Champneys  pushes  past 
him  and  enters,  C. ) 

Sir  G.  What  a  time  you  are,  Kempster.  Why  don’t  you  let  me 
know  if  Mr. - 

Kemp.  I  beg  your  parding,  Sir  Geoffry;  I  were  just  inquiring 
of - 

Sir  G.  Yes,  yes,  get  back  to  the  carriage,  (exit  Kempster, — to 
Poddles)  Is  your  master  in  ? 

Pod.  I’ll  see,  Sir  Geoffry.'  If  you  will  be  seated,  Sir  Geoffry, 
I’ll -  Exit,  L.  D. 

Sir  G.  ( pacing  the  room  impatiently  and  looking  at  watch  and 
fidgeting )  Yes,  yes.  The  train’s  late  ;  but  I  suppose  they  won’t 
— Why  hasn’t  Talbot  answered  my  letter?  Why  does  he  keep 
me  on  the  rack  ?  He  knows  how  anxious  I  am.  Haven’t  set  eyes 


8 


“OC/R  BO  vs:1 


on  the  dear  boy  for  three  years,  and  I’m  longing  to  hear  his  views 
on  men  and  things.  They’ll  be  the  same  as  mine,  I  know. 

Enter,  Miss  Clarissa  Champneys,  C. — the  Baronet' s  sister — an 

elderly  young  lady . 

Clar.  I  couldn’t  refrain  from  following  you,  Geoffry.  I  am  so 
anxious  about  the  dear  boy. 

Sir  G.  ( tetchily )  Of  course  you’re  anxious.  I'm  anxious. 

Clar.  And  I’ve  no  doubt  Mr.  Middlewick  is  just  as  anxious  about 
his  dear  boy. 

Sir  G.  Clarissa,  I’m  surprised  at  you.  Because  these  young  men 
happen  to  have  met  recently  in  Paris,  and  are  coming  home  in 
company,  that  is  no  reason  why  you  should  link  them  together  in 
that  ridiculous  manner.  My  son  comes  of  an  ancient  honored 
race.  The  other  young  man  is  the  son  of  a  butterman. 

Clar.  A  retired  one,  remember. 

Sir  G.  Impossible  !  A  butterman  can  t  retire. 

You  may  break,  you  may.  shatter  the  tub  if  you  will, 

But  the  scent  of  the  butter  will  hang  by  it  still. 

Mr.  Middlewick  is  a  most  estimable  person, — charitable — as  he 
ought  to  be  ;  and  has  considerable  influence  in  the  neighborhood. 

Clar.  Which  accounts  for  your  tolerating  him. 

Sir  G.  I  admit  it.  The  dream  of  my  life  has  been  that  my  boy 
Talbot  should  distinguish  himself  in  Parliament.  To  that  end  I 
mapped  out  a  complete  course  of  instruction  for  him  to  pursue  ; 
directed  him  to  follow  the  plan  laid  down  implicitly ;  never  to  veer 
to  the  right  or  left,  but  to  do  as  I  bid  him, — like — like - 

Clar.  Like  a  machine. 

Sir  G.  Eh?  Yes,  like  a  machine.  Machines  never  strike. 

Clar.  I  hope  he’ll  answer  your  expectations.  Considering  his 
advantages,  his  occasional  letters  haven’t  been  remarkable ,  have 
they?  [aside)  Except  for  brevity — which,  in  his  case,  has  not  been 
the  soul  of  wit. 

Sir  G.  Dear !  dear  !  Clarissa,  what  a  woman  you  are  !  What 
would  you  have  of  the  boy  ?  His  letters  have  been  a  little  short, 
but  invariably  pithy.  I  don’t  want  my  son  to  be  a  literary  man. 
I  want  him  to  shine  in  politics  and - 

Clar.  Suppose  Mr.  Middlewick’ s  views  regarding  his  son  are 
similar.  Supposing  he  wants  him  to  shine  in  politics. 

Sir  G.  Clarissa,  you  seem  to  take  a  great  interest  in  Mr.  Middle¬ 
wick.  A  man  without  an  H  to  his  back.  A  man  who — who  eats 
with  his  knife,  who  behaves  himself  in  society  like  an  amiable 
gold-digger,  and  who - 

Clar.  Who  is  coming  up  the  path.  So  moderate  your  voice, 
Geoffry,  or  he’ll  hear  you. 


“ OUR  BOYS”  9 

Sir  G.  You’re  a  very  irritating  woman,  Clarissa,  and  I  don’t — 
don’t - 

Mr.  Perkyn  Middlewick  appears  at  French  windows — he  is  a 

sleek ,  comfortable  man  of  about  fifty . 

Mid.  Hah  !  Sir  Geoffry,  glad  to  see  you.  Miss  Champneys, 
your  ’umble  servant.  ( shakes  hands  ;  Sir  Geoffry  shakes  hands 
distantly ,  Miss  Clarissa  warmly)  Phew!  ain’t  it  ’ot?  awful  ’ot. 

Sir  G.  {loftily ,  R.)  It  is  very  warm. 

Mid.  (c.)  Warm!  /call  it ’ot.  (/<?  Clarissa)  What  do  you  call 
it  ? 

Clar.  / call  it  decidedly  “  hot." 

Mid.  That’s  what  / say.  /  say  it’s  ’ot.  Well,  Sir  Geoffry,  any 
noos  ? 

Sir  G,  No  news. 

Mid.  No  noos  !  Ain’t  you  heard  from  your  son  ? 

Sir  G.  Not  a  line. 

Mid.  Oh,  my  boy’s  written  me  a  letter  of  about  eight  pages. 
He’ll  be  here  soon  ;  I  sent  the  shay. 

Sir  G.  Sent  the  what  ? 

Mid.  The  shay — the  shay . 

Sir  G.  Oh,  the  chaise  ? 

Mid.  No,  only  one  of  ’em.  They’ll  be  here  directly.  What’s 
the  good  of  Charley  writing  me  a  letter  with  half  of  it  in  foreign 
languages?  Here’s  a  bit  of  French  here,  and  a  morsel  of  ’Talian 
there,  and  a  slice  of  Latin ,  I  suppose  it  is,  further  on,  and  then  a 
something  out  of  one  of  the  poets — -leastways,  I  suppose  it  is,  for  it’s 
awful  rubbish — then,  lor!  regler  rigmarole  altogether.  S’ pose  he 
done  it  to  show  as  the  money  wasn’t  wasted  on  his  eddication. 

Sir  G.  ( with  satisfaction )  Hah  !  rather  different  from  my  son. 
He  prefers  to  reserve  the  fruits  of  his  years  of  study  until  he  can 
present  them  in  person.  Your  son,  Mr.  Middlewick,  has  followed 
the  example  of  the  strawberry  sellers  and  dazzled  you  with  the  dis¬ 
play  of  the  top.  Perhaps  when  you  search  below  you  may  find 
the  contents  of  the  pottle  not  so  satisfactory,  (goes  up) 

Mid.  {down,  C.,  aside)  Mayhap  I  may.  Mayhap  the  front  tubs 
is  butter  and  the  rest  dummies.  When  I  first  started  in  business 
I’d  the  finest  stock  in  Lambeth — to  look  at.  But  they  was  all 
sham.  The  tubs  was  ’oiler  if  you  turned  ’em  round,  and  the  very 
yams  was  ’eartless  delooders.  Can  Charley’s  letter  be? — No,  I 
won’t  believe  it. 

Clar.  {aside  to  him)  Don’t,  dear  Mr.  Middlewick,  don’t,  {goes 
up  in  pleasing  confusion) 

Mid.  {aside)  That’s  a  very  nice,  sensible  woman.  It  ain’t  the 
first  time  she’s  been  civil  to  me.  I’ll  play  the  polite  to  her  if  it’s 
only  to  rile  old  poker-back,  {goes  up  to  her,  L.) 

Sir  G.  {down,  R.)  I  knew  “  our  boys  ”  would  drive  here  first, 


10 


“ our  boys:' 


Mr.  Middlewick,  which  must  be  my  excuse  for  this  intrusion,  and 

- ( noise  of  a  carriage  driving  up  heard )  Here  they  are!  here 

they  are  ! 

Mid.  (goes  up  to  window)  That’s  them  !  that’s  them  ! 

Sir  G.  (r.  )  I  feel  actually  faint,  Clarissa,  (sinks  on  sofa )  The 

thought  of  seeing  my  dear,  handsome,  clever  boy  again  is — is - 

Clar.  (aside)  Don’t  exhibit  this  ridiculous  weakness,  Geoffry. 

Sir  G.  Before  a  tradesman,  too.  You  are  right,  (rises) 

Mid.  I  feel  a  bit  of  a — sort  of  a — kind  of  a  fluttering  myself \ 

Enter,  Charles  Middlewick,  at  l.  d. 

Char.  Father!  Dad  !  Dear  old  governor  !  (rushes  to  his  father' s 
arms) 

Mid.  My  boy!  My  boy  !  (embraces  him  ;  they  are  demonstrative 
in  their  delight — Charley  is  a  handsome ,  gallant  young  fellow) 

Sir  G.  Yes  but  where’s  my  son?  Where’s  Talbot? 

Enter,  Talbot  Champneys,  l. — he  is  a  washed-out  youth ,  with 
yellow-reddish  hair  parted  down  the  middle  ;  a  faint  effort  at  a 
fluffy  whisker  and  moustache  ;  dreadfully  over-dressed,  and  has  a 
limp  look  generally  ;  an  eye-glass ,  and  a  soft  namby-pamby  mariner. 

Sir  G.  Talbot,  my  dear  boy,  I’m  so  delighted  to - 

Tal.  Yes,  yes  ;  how  are  you  ?  Bless  my  life,  how  grey  you’ve 
got — shouldn’t  have  known  you.  And  that’s  not  Aunt  Clarissa  ? 
Dear,  dear!  such  an  alteration  in  three  years — shouldn’t  have 
known  you.  (kisses  her ;  they  turn  aside  conversing) 

Mid.  (l.)  Well,  Charley,  old  boy,  how  do  I  look,  eh?  Pretty 
’arty,  for  an  old  ’un  ? 

Char.  Yes,  yes,  splendid,  (to  him ,  aside)  //earty,  dad,  hearty. 
Mid.  Well,  I  said  ’arty.  And  you,  Charley — there  !  Growed 
out  of  all  knowledge. 

Char,  (aside)  Growed — hem  !  (seems  annoyed  at  his  father  s  ignor¬ 
ance — aside  to  him)  “Grown,”  governor,  “grown.” 

Mid.  Ain’t  got  nothing  to  groan  for.  (aside)  Rum  notions  they 
pick  up  abroad.  But,  Charley,  you  ain’t  introduced  me  to  your 
friend,  Mr.  Talbot.  Do  the  honors,  do  the  honors. 

Char.  Talbot,  this  is  my  father. 

Mid.  Proud  to  know  you,  sir. 

Tal.  (through  his  glass)  How  do  ?  how  do  ? 

Mid.  ’Arty  as  a  buck,  and  fresh  as  a  four-year-old,  thankee. 
Hope  we  shall  see  a  good  deal  of  you,  Mr.  Talbot — any  friend  of 
my  son’s - 

Sir  G.  (comes  down ,  R.)  Yes,  exactly,  Mr.  Middlewick.  Flat¬ 
tered,  I’m  sure,  but  our  boys’  lines  of  life  will  be  widely  apart,  I 
expect.  Your  son,  I  presume,  will  embark  in  commerce,  whilst 
mine  will,  I  trust,  shine  in  a  public  and,  excuse  me  for  adding,  a 
more  elevated  sphere. 


“ our  boys:' 


i  i 


Mid.  ( aside ,  L.  c. )  Yes,  he  looks  like  a  shiner . 

Clar.  But,  Geoffry,  probably  Mr.  Middlevvick  and  his  son  would 
like  to  be  alone  a  little,  so - 

Mid.  Just  so.  (aside)  She  is  a  sensible  woman,  (to  them)  I 
shouldn’t  mind  if  you  did  “get  out”  for  a  short  time. 

Sir  G.  Exactly.  I  want  a  talk  with  Talbot  too,  and  as  the 
ponies  are  put  up,  Talbot,  we’ll  have  a  stroll  through  the 
grounds. 

Tab  I  don’t  mind.  Only  I’m  jolly  hungry,  that’s  all. 

Exit,  c.  and R.,  with  Sir  Geoffry  Champneys. 

Mid.  (aside  to  Clarissa)  Miss  Champneys,  what’s  your  candid 
opinion  of  your  nephew  ? 

Clara.  A  numskull  !  Exit,  C.  and  R. 

Mid.  She  is  a  sensible  woman.  Charley,  not  to  put  too  fine  a 
point  upon  it,  your  friend’s  a  fool.  I  say  it  deliberately,  Charley, 
he’s  a  li  ass. 

Char,  (deprecatingly)  Oh,  dad  ! 

Mid.  And  his  father  destines  him  for  a  public  career.  Ha  !  ha  ! 
Him  ever  take  the  public — why,  he  ain’t  got  it  in  him  to  take  a 
beer-shop. 

Char,  (aside)  Is  it  that  he  has  grown  more  vulgar,  or  that  / 
have  grown  more  sensitive  ?  Anyhow,  it  jars  terribly.  But  who 
am  1  to  criticise — what  should  I  have  been  but  for  His  generosity 
— his — Bah  !  Ignorant — H-less  as  he  is,  I’d  sooner  have  him  for 
a  father  than  twenty  stuck-up  Sir  Geoffry  Champneys. 

Mid.  (sitting)  And  now,  Charley,  that  we’re  alone,  my  dear 
fellow,  tell  your  old  dad  what  your  impressions  of  foreign  parts 
were.  When  I  was  your  age  the  Continent  was  a  sealed  book  to 
them  as  wasn’t  wealthy.  There  was  no  Cook’s  excursions  then, 
Charley  ;  leastaways,  they  seldom  went  further  than  White  Con- 
dick  Gardens  or  Beulah  Spor,  when  they  in  general  come  back 
with  their  bonnets  a  one  side,  and  wep’  when  they  was  spoke  to 
’arsh.  No,  no,  you’ve  been  born  when  there  was  the  march  o’ 
intellect,  and  Atlantic  cables  and  other  curious  things,  and 
naturally  you’ve  benefited  thereby.  So  of  course  you’re  a  scholar, 
and  seen  a  deal.  Paris  now — nice  place,  ain’t  it? 

Char.  Glorious  ! 

Mid.  ’0\v  about  the  ’orse  flesh  ? 

Char.  A  myth. 

Mid.  Railly  through  !  And  I  suppose  frogs  is  fallacies.  Only 
to  think ! 

Char.  Paris  is  a  paradise.  But  Italy — well,  there  ! 

Mid.  But  ain’t  it  a  mass  of  lazeyroneys  ? 

Char.  A  mere  libel.  A  land  of  romance,  beauty,  tradition, 
poetry  !  Milan  !  Venice  !  Verona  !  Florence  ! 

Mid.  Where  the  ile  comes  from. 


U.  OF.  ILL  Lib. 


12 


“OUR  BOYS.” 


Char.  Rome  !  Naples  ! 

Mid.  That’s  where  Vesoovius  is,  ain’t  it  ? 

Char.  Yes. 

Mid.  Was  it  “  fizzin’  ”  when  you  was  there,  Charley  ? 

Char.  No.  There  was  no  eruption  when  I  was  there. 

Mid.  That’s  wrong,  you  know,  that’s  wrong.  I  didn’t  limit  you, 
Charley  ;  I  said  “  See  everything,”  and  I  certainly  expected  as 
you’d  insist  upon  an  eruption. 

Char.  But,  my  dear  dad,  I  saw  everything  else — Pompeii  and 
Herculaneum. 

Mid.  Eh? 

Char.  Pompeii  and  Herculaneum — they  were  ruined ,  you 
know. 

Mid.  Two  unfortnit  Italian  warehousemen,  I  suppose. 

Char.  Nonsense  !  They  were  buried,  you  remember. 

Mid.  And  why  not  f  It’d  be  a  pretty  thing  to  refuse  an  unlucky 
firm  as  went  broke  a  decent— — 

Char.  You  don’t  understand. 

Mid.  ( bluntly )  No,  I  don't. 

Char.  But  Germany,  dad — the  Rhine — “the  castled  crags  of 
Drachenfels  ” — the  Castle  of  Erhenbreitstein - 

Mid.  Aaron  who  ?  Some  swell  German  Jew,  I  suppose, 
u  Char.  And  the  German  women.  ( nudges  him ) 

Mid.  Charles,  I’m  surprised.  I’m  simply — a — What  are  they 
like,  Charley  ?  (gets  closer  to  him) 

Char,  (sighs)  Hah ! 

Mid.  Lost  your  heart,  eh  ? 

Char.  Not  to  a  German  girl,  oh  no — the  lady  /met  who - 

Sir  G.  ( heard  without)  Well,  we  may  as  well  join  our  friends. 

Char,  (aside — rises)  Here’s  Talbot’s  delightful  father.  I 
wouldn’t  swop  parents  with  him  for  all  his  high  breeding.  Our 
heart’s  blood’s  a  trifle  cloudy,  perhaps,  but  it  flows  freely — his  is 
so  terribly  pure  it  hardly  takes  the  trouble  to  trickle.  No,  Talbot, 
old  fellow,  I  don’t  envy  you  your  father.  (goesup}  L.,  and  joins 
Middlewick) 

Sir  Geoffry  enters,  followed  by  Talbot,  c  .from  R. 

Sir  G.  (coming  down ,  R.)  But  really,  Talbot,  you  must  have 
some  ideas  on  what  you  have  seen. 

Tal.  What’s  the  use  of  having  ideas,  when  you  can  pick  ’em  up 
in  the  guide  books  ? 

Sir  G.  (pleased)  Ah,  then  you  are  fond  of  reading?  Good. 

Tal.  Reading!  Ha!  ha!  I  hate  it.  (sits,  R.  c.) 

Sir  G.  (trying  to  excuse  him)  Well,  well,  perhaps  some  fathers 
set  too  great  a  value  on  books.  After  all,  one’s  fellow  man  is  the 
best  volume  to  study.  And  as  one  who  I  hope  may  ripen  into  a 


“OUR  BOYS ”  13 

statesman — your  general  appearance  strongly  reminds  me  of  Pitt, 
by-the-bye — perhaps  you  are  right. 

Mid.  [aside,  to  Charley)  Finest  you  ever  saw.  SirGeoffry,  wc 
shall  be  back  shortly.  Exit,  l.  d.  ,  with  Charley. 

Sir  G.  And  you  actually  saw  nothing  in  the  Rhine  ? 

Tal.  Oh,  yes,  I  did. 

Sir  G.  That’s  well. 

Tal.  No  end  of  mud. 

Sir  G.  But  Cologne  now  ? 

Tal.  Famous  for  its  Cathedral  and  its  smells.  Both,  I  regret  to 
say,  unfinished. 

Sir  G.  But  Germany,  generally  ? 

Tal.  Detestable. 

Sir  G.  Switzerland.  Come,  you  were  a  long  time  there.  There 
you  saw  nature  in  all  its  grandeur.  Your  Alpine  experiences 
were - 

Tal.  Limited — very  limited.  I  admired  those  venturesome  beings 
who  risked  their  necks,  but  it  was  at  a  distance.  I  can’t  say  a 
respectful  distance  for  I  thought  them  fools. 

Sir  G.  No  doubt  you  were  right,  [aside)  Prudence,  caution,  fore¬ 
thought — excellent  qualities,  [to  him)  Italy? 

Tal.  Second-hand  sort  of  country.  Things,  as  a  rule,  give  you  a 
notion  of  being  unredeemed  pledges.  Everything  old  and  cracked. 
Didn’t  care  for  it.  Jolly  glad  to  get  to  Paris. 

Sir  G.  [with  a  relish)  Ha!  The  Louvre,  eh? 

Tal.  Yes.  I  preferred  “  Mabille.” 

Sir  G.  A  public  building  ? 

Tal.  Rather.  But  even  Paris  palls  on  a  fellow. 

Sir  G.  [rising  and  taking  his  hand)  I  see,  Talbot,  like  a  true 
Champneys  you  prefer  your  native  land  to  all  these  meretricious 
foreign  places.  Well,  dear  boy,  you’ve  a  glorious  career  before 
you,  and  it  only  rests  with  you  to  follow  it  up.  I  have  arranged  a 
marriage - 

Tal.  A  what ! 

Sir  G.  Not  arranged  it  exactly,  but  it  can  be  arranged — shall  he. 

Tal.  [quietly)  Provided,  of  course,  I  approve  of  the  lady. 

Sir  G.  Eh  !  You  approve  !  What  have  you  got  to  do'  with  it  ? 

Tal.  Quite  as  much  as  she  has,  and  rather  more  than  you,  con¬ 
sidering  /  should  have  to  live  with  her  and  you  wouldn’t. 

Sir  G.  [annoyed)  Talbot,  I’m  afraid  you  have  picked  up  some 
low  Radical  opinious  during  your  residence  abroad.  I  expect 
obedience.  I  have  done  all  a  father  can  fora  son.  You  will  wed, 
sir,  as  /  wish  ;  you  will  espouse  my  politics,  be  returned  for  Lufton 
by  my  influence,  and- - 

Tal.  Unless  Charley  Middlewick  chooses  to  stand - 

Sir  G.  [in  horror)  Charley  Middlewick  chooses  to  stand? 

Tal.  In  which  case  I - 


14 


a 


OUR  BO  VSR 


Sir  G.  Yes? 

Tal.  Should  sit  down. 

Sir  G.  ( sits  back )  Talbot  Champneys,  you  surprise  me — you 
wound  me.  You  have  received  every  advantage  that  money  could 
procure — you  have  come  back  after  your  lengthened  foreign 
experiences,  not — I  must  admit  with  pain — ;z<?/what  I  quite  expected. 
Possibly  I  looked  for  too  much,  but  surely  it  was  not  an  extrava¬ 
gant  hope  to  indulge  in  that  you  would  obey  me  in  the  one 
important  step  in  a  man’s  life — his  marriage.  The  lady  I  have 
selected  is  wealthy,  young  and  handsome.  She  is  on  a  visit  to 
your  aunt,  so  you  will  have  ample  opportunity  for  ingratiating 
yourself.  You  will  not  thwart  me  in  this,  my  dear  Talbot?  ( tak¬ 
ing  his  hand ) 

Tal.  Well,  before  promising  anything  you  must  trot  her  out. 

Sir  G.  Trot  her  out? 

Tal.  Yes,  yes,  put  her  through  her  paces — let’s  judge  of  her 
points.  You  don’t  expect  a  fellow  to  buy  a  pig  in  a  poke  ? 

Sir  G.  Hem!  [aside)  Very  remarkable  language.  If  anybody 
else  spoke  so,  I  should  say  it  was  vulgar,  but  my  son!  It’s — ha! 
ha! — eccentricity;  his  great-uncle  Joseph  was  eccentric — he — 
[looks  aside  at  Talbot  and  sighs  deeply) 

Tal.  [aside)  Married  whether  I  like  it  or  not.  Not  if  I  know  it. 
I’m  going  to  “go  it”  a  bit  before  /settle  down.  I  have  gone  it  a 
bit  already,  and  I’m  going  to  “  go  it  ”  a  bit  more.  It’s  the  gov¬ 
ernor’s  fault  ;  he  shouldn’t  have  mapped  out  my  career  with  com¬ 
pass  and  rule.  A  man’s  not  an  express  train,  to  be  driven  along  a 
line  of  rails  and  never  allowed  to  shunt  on  his  own  account.  There’s 
Charley’s  father  let  him  have  his  fling  and  no  questions  asked. 
The  governor’s  had  his  hobby — let  him  pay  for  it — he  can  do  it. 

Clarissa  has  entered,  c.,  spoken  briefly  aside  to  Sir  Geoffry  and 

is  now  down  beside  Talbot. 

Clar.  Talbot,  it  is  so  delightful  to  have  you  back  again.  I  shall 
now  have  such  charming  evenings  with  you  at  chess. 

Tal.  At  what? 

Clar.  Chess — the  king  of  games. 

Tal.  Do  you  call  it  a  game?  Ha  !  ha!  No,  thankee  ;  life’s  too 
short  for  chess. 

Clar.  Well,  well,  we’ll  say  backgammon. 

Tal.  I  don’t  mind  saying  backgammon,  but  you  don’t  catch  me 
playing  backgammon. 

Clar.  Weil,  then,  we  must  even  continue  our  usual  cosy  even, 
ings.  /do  my  wool-work  whilst  your  papa  reads  us  the  debates. 
That’s  our  regular  evening’s  programme. 

Tal.  [aside)  They  must  have  had  a  rollicking  time  of  it.  The 
debates  !  a  dozen  columns  of  dullness  filtered  through  your  father. 
Not  for  Talbot. 


“  OUR  BOYS r 


lo 


Clar.  But  now  we  have  music.  Miss  Melrose  plays  charmingly. 
Do  you  like  music  ? 

Tal.  Ye-e-s.  I  don’t  like  pieces ,  you  know — five  and-twenty 
minutes  of  fireworks.  I  like  anything  with  a  good  chorus. 

Clar.  Ah,  so  does  Miss  Melrose’s  cousin . 

Sir  G.  ( at  Clarissa,  to  stop  her )  He-hem  !  He-hem  ! 

Clar.  (aside)  I  forgot. 

Tal.  (suspiciously ,  aside )  Halloa !  Why  did  he  make  that  elabor¬ 
ate  but  utterly  ineffective  attempt  to  cough  down  the  cousin  ?  (looks 
at  Sir  Geoffry  and  Clarissa)  I  see  it  all  at  a  glance.  The 
heiress  is  to  be  flung  at  my  head,  not  the  cousin  at  my  heart. 
Future,  luck,  destiny,  and  all  the  lot  of  you,  1  see  my  fate.  I  marry 
that  cousin. 

Sir  G.  (aside  to  Clarissa)  Mary  Melrose,  the  cousin,  must  be 
sent  away. 

Clar.  (aside)  But  she  won’t  go. 

Sir  G.  Talbot  is  a — Talbot  is  a - 

Clar.  Talbot’s  a  fool. 

Sir  G.  (wounded,  yet  proud)  Clarissa  Champneys,  Talbot  is  my 
son. 

Clar.  Geoffry  Champneys,  Talbot  is  my  nephew.  I  only  wish  I 
could  exchange  him  for  young  Mr.  Middlewick. 

Sir  G.  You  irritate  me — you  incense  me — go  to  the  deuce, 
Clarissa ! 

Clar.  Ha  !  ha!  Come  along,  Talbot;  let’s  go  and  see  Mr.  Mid¬ 
dlewick’ s  pigs,  perhaps  they  ll  interest  you.  (takes  his  arm) 

Tal.  (has  been  taking  out  a  large  cigar)  You  don’t  mind  my 
smoking  ? 

Clar.  Not  a  bit. 

Tal.  D’ye  think  the  pigs  ’ll  object  ? 

Clar.  (aside)  He’s  an  idiot. 

Tal.  (aside)  She’s  a  nuisance,  (to  her)  Tell  us  all  about  the 
cousin,  (they  go  out) 

Sir  G.  Of  course  women  can  never  hold  their  tongues.  Mary 
Melrose  is  pretty — penniless  though.  Mischievous,  too,  as  a  girl 
can  well  be.  And  no  taste — goes  to  sleep  when  I  read  the  debates. 
Wakes  up  when  it’s  time  to  say  “  good  night,”  and  wants  to  play 
billiards.  A  very  dangerous  young  woman.  (Violet  Melrose 
heard  without,  c.  and  R.) 

Vio.  Now,  Mary,  you  must  promise  to  behave  yourself,  or  you 
shall  not  come  out  with  me  again. 

Sir  G.  That’s  Violet,  that’s  the  heiress — and  of  course  her 
cousin  Mary  with  her.  Confound  it !  They’re  as  inseparable  as 
— I’ll  try  and  walk  off  Talbot.  He  must  see  and  love  Miss  Mel¬ 
rose.  Yes,  wdiy  not  “  love  ?  ”  My  father  commanded  me  to  love, 
and  I  was  too  dutiful  a  son  not  to  obey  him  on  the  instant.  I  loved 
madly — to  order .  Exit  hastily ,  l.  d. 


u.  OF  ILL  UB. 


i6 


“  OUR  BOYS.” 


Enter,  Violet  Melrose,  c. 

Vio.  Where  can  they  have  got  to  ? 

Enter,  Mary  Melrose,  c .—the  poor  cousin— both  dressed  in  the 

best  taste. 

Mary.  What  a  handsome  place.  Looks  awfully  new  though, 
doesn’t  it?  Seems  as  if  it  was  painted  and  decorated  yesterday, 
and  furnished  in  the  middle  of  the  night — in  order  to  be*  ready  for 
visitors  this  morning.  I  seem  to  smell  the  hay  and  sacking  that 
enveloped  the  legs  of  the  chairs  and  tables.  Don’t  you ,  Violet? 

Vio.  Certainly  not.  Mary,  don’t  make  remarks. 

Mary.  Why  not  ?  J  like  to  make  remarks. 

Vio.  Yes,  you  like  to  do  a  great  many  things  you  shouldn  t  do. 

Mary.  So  does  every  one.  If  one’s  always  to  do  what’s  proper 
and  correct,  life  might  as  well  be  all  rice  pudding  and  toast  and 
water.  I  hate  them  both,  they’re  so  dreadfully  wholesome. 

Vio.  I  don’t  know  what  excuse  we  shall  make  for  coming  here. 
It  looks  as  if  we  were  impatient  to  see  the  young  men. 

Mary.  So  we  are.  At  least  I  am.  We’ve  seen  no  one  of  the 
male  sex  at  old  Cliampneys’. 

Vio.  Mary  ! 

Mary.  Begging  his  pardon — Sir  Geoffry  Champneys — Bart' s — 
no  one,  under  the  age  of  fifty. 

Vio.  Why,  Mary,  there’s  Mr.  Sedative,  he  isn’t  thirty. 

Mary.  Oh,  Sedative’s  a  curate  and  doesn’t  count.  Besides,  he 
blushes  when  you  speak  to  him,  and,  altogether,  he’s  a  muff.  He’s 
awfully  good  and  devoted  to  his  mother  and  all  that,  but — well, 
there,  he  isn’t  my  sort. 

Vio.  I  don’t  know  who  is  your  sort,  Mary. 

Mary.  Oh,  it’s  all  very  well  for  you ,  you  know  ;  you  can  pick 
and  choose — if  you  haven’t  picked  and  chosen. 

Vio.  Mary,  you — how  can  you  ? 

Mary.  Violet,  my  dear,  don’t  try  to  impose  upon  me.  I  know 
the  impression  young  Morton  made  upon  your  susceptible  heart.  I 
tried  hard  to  ensnare  him,  but  you  beat  me.  Oh,  you  quiet  ones, 
I  wouldn’t  trust  you  out  of  my  sight — [aside)  or  in  it  for  the  matter 
of  that. 

Vio.  You’re  always  thinking  of  love  and  marriage  and  all  that 
nonsense. 

Mary.  Of  course  I  am.  There’s  nothing  else  worth  thinking 
about.  It’s  all  very  well  for  you — you’re  rich,  and  you  have  your 
tenants,  and  your  pensioners,  and  your  dependents,  and  I  don’t 
know  what,  to  interest  you.  I’ve  nothing,  [sighs)  I  wish  I  was 
rich. 

Vio.  Then  marry  some  one  with  money. 

Mary.  Never  !  [after  a  slight  pause)  Unless  he’s  nice,  then  I  will 


“  OUR  BOYS .” 


1 7 


— oh,  yes,  I  don’t  go  in  for  “love  in  a  cottage.”  I  never  could 
understand  the  theory  of  “bread  and  cheese  and  kisses.”  I  hate 
bread  and  cheese. 

Vio.  ( with  admonitory  finger )  And - 

Mary,  (sighs)  I  know  nothing  about  the  rest. 

Vio.  You  mercenary  girl.  Mark  me,  you’ll  marry  a  rich  man. 

Mary.  Certainly — if  I  like  him. 

Vio.  But  as  for  a  poor  one  ? 

Mary.  I’ll  marry  him  if  I  like  him  better. 

Vio.  I  can’t  make  you  out  ;  you’re  simply  the  most - 

Enter,  Charles  Middle  wick  quickly . 

Mary,  (aside)  Morton ! 

Char.  Why,  Miss  Melrose  ! 

Vio.  Oh,  can  I  be - (sinks  into  chair) 

Mary.  If  anybody’ d  catch  me  I*  think  I  could  faint. 

Char.  Let  me.  (catches  her  in  his  arms)  My  dear  Miss  Melrose, 
I - 

Vio.  (recovers  suddenly)  Mr.  Morton  !  ! 

Char.  Miss  Melrose  !  (leaves  Mary  and  goes  to  Violet)  Can  I 
— can  I  believe  my  eyes  ?  What  are  you  doing  here  ? 

Vio.  What  we  you  doing  here  ? 

Char.  Morton  isn’t  my  name.  I  assumed  it  at  Bonn,  like  a  fool, 
because  of  a  scrape  I  got  into  with  an  offensive  and  warlike 
student,  which  resulted  in  his  being  rather  severely  wounded — an 
insolent  hound.  No,  I’ve  come  back  here  to  my  home,  to  my 
father,  and - 

Vio.  (aside,  romantically)  Comeback  to  his  father,  to  his  home  ! 
Mary,  is — is  this  destiny? 

Mary,  (aside  to  her)  If  it  is  destiny,  dear,  don’t  you  think  I’d 
better  go  away  for  a  short  time  ? 

Vio.  No,  no,  Mary,  don’t  go,  by  any  means. 

Mary.  I  wouldn’t  dream  of  such  a  thing.  Exit  C.  and  R. 

Char.  Life’s  made  up  of  surprises.  Only  to  think  of  meeting 
you  here. 

Vio.  You  took  no  parlicular  trouble  to  find  out  where  to  meet 
me,  did  you  ? 

Char.  You  left  Vienna  so  abruptly.  You  wouldn’t  have  had  me 
advertise  ? 

Vio.  Really  ! 

Char.  Lost,  stolen,  or  strayed,  a  young  lady,  etc.,  etc.  Anyone 
^restoring  her  to  her  disconsolate  admirer,  Charles — a - 

Vio.  Mr.  Morton,  upon  my  word,  I - 

Char,  (ardently)  And  upon  my  word  this  is  the  happiest  moment 
of  my  life  *no,  it’s  run  hard  by  the  other  moment,  when  under  the 
shadow  of  the  trees,  with  the  wild  river  rushing  at  our  feet,  you 
half — half  whispered  a  word  or  two  that  led  me  to  hope.  Oh, 


1 8 


“  OUR  BOYS.” 


Violet,  I  swear  by — by — by  those  eyes — and  what  could  a  man 
swear  by  truer  [or,  query,  bluer)^-Y\z  never  ceased  to  think  of 
you,  to  dream  of  you - 

Vio.  To  dream  of  me  ?  What,  not  when  you’ve  been  awake  ? 

Char.  I’ve  never  been  awake  ;  life,  since  we  parted,  has  been 
one  long  sweet  siesta  in  which  your  image  was  ever  foremost. 
The  chief  cause,  the  only  cause  of  my  hastening  home  was  to 
search  you  out.  I  knew  your  wandering  ways,  and  meant  to  track 
you.  You  said  you  intended  spending  the  summer  at  Biarritz.  But 
fortune  has  favored  me  as  she  never  yet  favored  man,  and  placed 
the  prize  in  my  arms. 

Vio.  ( pleased ,  but  trying  to  be  severe)  In  where  ? 

Char,  [throwing  his  arms  round  her)  There!  [slight  pause) 

Vio.  Mr.  Morton,  I’m  ashamed  of  you. 

Char.  Miss  Melrose,  Y  va  proud  of  YOU. 

Vio.  Really,  I - 

Char.  You  wouldn’t  have  me  think  you  a  flirt — a  coquette  ? 

Vio.  Indeed,  no. 

Char.  You  would  be  one  if  when  you  breathed  those  half-dozen 
delicious  words,  you  only  meant  to  trifle  with  me.  I’ve  lived  upon 
that  sentence  ever  since — looking  ardently  forward  to  the  day 
when  I  could  present  myself  in  propria  perso?ia  as  I  do  now. 
Violet,  don’t  turn  away,  for - (Sir  Geoffry  coughs  without) 

Vio.  [rather  agitated)  There’s  somebody  coming. 

Char.  Confound  it !  in  this  life  there  always  is  somebody  com¬ 
ing.  [goes  up ,  L.) 

Sir  G.  (enters)  I  can’t  find  him — he  isn’t  with  the  pigs,  [to 
Violet)  I  regret  that  my  son - 

Vio.  Why,  Sir  Geoffry — you  must  have  intended  it  as  a  wicked 
surprise.  Your  son  and  I  are  acquainted. 

Sir  G.  Has  he,  then,  already - 

Vio.  Oh,  before - 

Sir  G.  Good  gracious!  You  must  not  mind  his  being  a  little 
bashful  and  retiring. 

Vio.  Oh,  I  didn’t  find  him  so  at  all. 

Sir  G.  [aside)  The  deuce  she  didn’t !  met  before? 

Vio.  At  Vienna. 

Sir  G.  Is  it  possible  ?  And  you  don’t — don’t  dislike  him  ? 

Vio.  Oh,  who  could ! 

Sir  G.  [aside)  I  can’t  believe  my -  The  young  rascal !  all  his 

opposition  was  assumed  then — a  deep,  young  dog.  Ha  !  ha  ! 
Well,  he  took  me  in.  Ha  !  ha  !  Yes,  he  took  me  in. 

Char,  [down)  I  hope,  Sir  Geoffry,  we  shall - 

Sir  G.  Yes,  yes,  young  gentleman,  all  in  good  time,  but  just  at 
present  you  see  we -  • 

Vio.  I  should  like  to  hear,  though,  what  your  son  was  about  to 
say. 


“OUR  BOYS."  19 

Sir  G.  ( seeing  with  horror  the  mistake )  My — my  son  !  This  per¬ 
son — he’s  no  son  of  mine. 

Char,  [half  aside)  No — thank  Heaven  ! 

Vio.  [shrinks from  him;  bitterly)  Twice  an  impostor! 

Char.  Violet,  I - 

Enter,  l.  d.,  Middlewick  and  Miss  Clarissa;  at  c.,  Mary  and 

Talbot. 

Mid.  It’s  true,  mum.  Every  one  on  ’em  was  agin  me  doing  it. 

Halloa — who’s  the  gals? 

• 

At  hearing  the  intensely  vulgar  voice  of  Middlewick,  Violet  has 
shrunk ,  and ,  evidently  shocked,  assumes  a  cold  look — Charley 
perceives  it,  and  by  his  expression  shows  he  resents  her  manner. 

Tal.  [to  Mary)  D’ye  know  I  feel  as  if  I’d  known  you  ever  so 
long  ? 

Mary.  And  I’ve  quite  taken  to  you— fact - 

Sir  Geoffry,  who  has  observed  this  with  suppressed  rage ,  takes 
Talbot  by  the  arm,  with  a  slight  wrench,  brings  him  to  Violet. 

Char,  [aside)  I  could  read  a  volume  in  her  altered  look. 

Sir  G.  This,  Violet,  is — is  my  son! 

Char,  [seizing  Middlewick’ s  hand  with  a  grasp  of  affection; 
proudly)  And  this ,  Miss  Melrose,  is  my  father  ! 

ACT  DROP. 


« 


ACT  II. 

Scene. — Drawing-room  at  Sir  Geoffry  Champneys’— Kempster 

discovered. 

Kemp.  Well,  things  are  coming  to  a  pretty  pass  when  we  have 
such  visitors  to  dinner  as  Mr.  Middlewick,  senor.  Three  ’elps  to 
soup,  and  his  napkin  tucked  round  his  neck  for  all  the  world  like  a 
carver  at  a  cafe — a  common  cafe,  [down)  And  yet,  somehow,  I 
fancy  his  ’art’s  in  the  right  place  ;  I  know  his  ’and  is  (that’s  his 
pocket)  a  precious  deal  oftener  than  the  governor’s.  I’ve  heard, 
too,  as  the  servants  at  his  place  are  fed  on  the  fat  of  the  land. 
Hem  !  we  ain’t.  There’s  a  deal  too  much  show  here.  Three 
mutton  cutlets  for  four  people,  who’ve  the  consolation  of  knowing 
the  dishes  is  ’all  marked,  though  when  a  party’s  hungry  silver 
ain’t  satisfying. 


20 


“  OUR  BOYS r 


Enter,  Sir  Geoff ry  and  Middlewick,  in  evening  dress ,  Middle- 

wick’s  a  little  old  fashioned  and  extravagant — large ,  double- 

breasted  white  waistcoat  and  plenty  of  necktie. 

Sir  G.  Yes,  yes,  Mr.  Middlewick,  you  are  perfectly  right,  (to 
Kempster)  Send  our  coffee  in  here. 

Kemp,  (aside)  They’re  a-gettin’  thick,  they’re  a-gettin’  uncom¬ 
mon  thick.  Exit,  L.  D. 

Sir  G.  You  enjoyed  your  dinner? 

Mid.  (sits)  Fust-rate.  H ay  one . 

Sir  G.  Good  !  And  you  don’t  mind  leaving  your  wine  for  a 
chat  ? 

Mid.  Not  a  bit.  Can’t  abear  claret,  and  port  pays  me  out.  I 
never  knew  what  gout  was  when  I  had  my  shop. 

Sir  G.  He-hem  ! 

Mid.  (aside)  He  always  shies  at  the  shop.  Well,  I  won’t  tread 
on  his  aristocratic  corns  ;  it  ain’t  fair,  for  after  all,  they're  tender, 
and  T  m  ’eavy. 

Sir  G.  I’m  delighted,  Mr.  Middlewick,  to  welcome  under  my 
roof  so  successful  a  representative  of  the  commercial  spirit  of  the 
age.  Champneys  Hall,  as  a  rule,  has  been  honored  by  the  visits 
of  people  of  birth  solely.  Your  presence  here  is  a  pleasing  excep¬ 
tion. 

Mid.  Sir  Geoffry,  you  do  me  ^onor.  Of  course  money’s  always 
a - 

Sir  G.  Not  wholly.  I  anticipate  your  remark.  Personal  worth 
must  count  for  something. 

Mid.  Fust-rate  theory — phyls-D tropic  and  all  that — but  it  don’t 
wash,  Sir  Geoffry.  Tak c  yourself ,  for  instance.  When  you  stroll 
about  ’ere,  everybody  you  meet  touches  his  ’at.  How  many  does 
so  when  you  walks  down  Fleet  Street? 

Sir  G.  Everybody  touches  his  hat  to  you,  Mr.  Middlewick. 

Mid.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  See  here  ;  that' s  what  they  touches  their 
’ats  to.  (slaps  his  pocket ,  which  rattles  with  the  sound  of  money) 
Money  makes  the  mare  to  go — the  ?nare — rubbish  !  It  sets  the 
whole  stable  a  gallopin’  !  If  I  go  into  a  shop  shabby  the  counter¬ 
skipper  treats  me  familiar,  pre-aps  ’aughty.  If  I  wear  new  broad 
cloth  he  calls  me  “  Sir.”  There  you  ’ave  it  in  a  nutshell. 

Sir  G.  Mr.  Middlewick,  I  admit  that  money  exercises  an  undue 
influence  in  the  world  and  to  an  extent  with  vulgar — I  repeat, 
vulgar  minds — elbows  birth,  worth,  virtue,  and — a — all  that  sort  of 
thing  a  little  out  of  the  way.  That  is  why  so  many  of  us — I  say 
US — live  in  the  country,  where — where - 

Mid.  Jes’  so.  /know.  You’re  somebody  ’ere — nobody  there. 
Quite  right ;  that’s  why  /  settled  in  the  country. 

Sir  G.  Your  career  has  been  a  remarkable  one. 

Mid.  Extry-ordinary.  I  was  lucky  from  a  baby.  Found  a  farden 


“  OUR  BOYS r 


21 


when  I  was  two  years  old,  and  got  a  five-shilling  piece  for  ‘olding 
a  ’orse  when  I  was  playing  truant  at  the  age  of  six.  When  1 
growed  up  everything  I  touched  turned  up  trumps.  I  believe  if 
I’d  purchased  a  ship-load  of  Dutch  cheeses,  the  man  with  the  van 
’ud  a’  delivered  me  Stiltons.  I  believe  as  the  Government  went 
to  war  a  purpose  to  give  me  a  openin’  for  contracks.  Bacon  ! 
Well,  there — bless  your  ’art,  what  I  made  out  of  bacon  alone  was 
a  little  independence.  I  never  meet  a  pig  in  the  road  that  I  don’t 
feel  inclined  to  take  off  my  ’at  to  him. 

Sir  G.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Mid.  Every  speculation  proved  a  success.  It  seemed  as  if  I 
was  in  the  secret  of  life*  s  lucky  bag,  and  had  been  put  up  to  where 
I  was  to  pick  out  the  prizes.  Some  folks  said,  “  ’Old  ’ard,  Perkyn, 
my  boy,  you’ll  run  aground.”  Well,  I  didn't  “  ’old  ’ard,”  1  “’eld 
on,”  and  here  I  am,  Sir  Geoffry,  at  the  age  of  fifty-three  able  to 
buy  up  any  ’arf  a  dozen  nobs  in  the  county. 

Sir  G.  [aside)  Nobs  !  He  is  a  pill  for  all  his  gilding. 

Mid.  But  if  I' m  not  a  gentleman,  there’s  my  boy. 

Sir  G.  Who,  I  have  a  sort  of  suspicion,  admires  Violet  Melrose. 

Mid.  What!  The  stuck-up  rich  gal.  No!  no! 

Sir  G.  [eagerly)  You  think  not? 

Mid.  Certain.  My  son  knows  better  than  to  thwart  me.  Miss 
Melrose  snubbed  me  when  we  fust  met — has  cold-shouldered  me 
ever  since.  Do  you  suppose  my  boy  Charley  would  have  any¬ 
thing  to  say  to  a  young  woman  as  despised  his  father? 

Sir  G.  [shaking  hands)  My  dear  Middlewick,  you  delight  me. 
Of  course  not.  I  was  foolishly  suspicious.  I  want  my  son  to  marry 
Miss  Melrose.  He  will  do  so  of  course — for  he  has  never  dis¬ 
obeyed  me  ;  he  has  been  brought  up  strictly  to  acknowledge  my 
authority  and - 

Mid.  And  wont ,  I’ll  warrant.  Your  system’s  a  mistake — mine' s 
the  correct  one.  I’ve  always  given  my  boy  his  fling — never 
baulked  him  from  a  baby.  If  he  cried  for  the  moon  we  give  him 
a  Cheshire  cheese  immediate — that  being  the  nearest  substitute 
’andy.  Now  he’d  obey  my  slightest  wish. 

Sir  G.  Will  he  !  Ha  !  ha  !  Let  us  hope  so. 

Enter,  Violet  Melrose. 

Vio.  Interrupting  a  tete-a-tete ,  I’m  afraid. 

Sir  G.  Not  at  all,  Miss  Melrose. 

Mid.  Oh,  no,  not  at  all — not  at  all.  [rises  and  goes  up — aside ) 
“Taturtate” — always  coming  out  with  her  /talian.  Ha,  she’s  not 
a  patch  upon  the  cousin  ;  she’s  the  gal  for  my  money. 

Sir  G.  [down — aside  in  an  undertone  to  Violet)  Miss  Melrose — 
may  I  say  Violet — I  trust  Talbot’s  manner,  modest  as  it  is,  has 
impressed  you.  You  must  not  take  him  for  the  foo —  I  mean  you 


22 


“  OUR  BOYSr 


mustn’t  imagine  lie  is  the  less  ardent  because  he  doesn’t  talk 

poetry  like  young  Mr.  Middlewick,  or - 

Vio.  ( with  temper )  Oh,  don’t  mention  him ,  Sir  Geoffry — that 
young  gentleman  seems  to  ignore  my  existence. 

Sir  G.  (aside)  Good.  Son  sees  father’s  snubbed  and  retaliates. 
(to  her)  Ha!  ha!  do  you  know — pardon  my  absurdity — at  first  I 
actually  imagined  there  was  some  trifling  tenderness  in  that 
quarter.  But  I  see  by  your  face  I  was  mistaken.  You  are  above 
being  dazzled  by  good  looks. 

Vio.  (with  a  natural  burst)  And  he  is  good-looking,  isn’t  he? 

Sir  G.  (a  little  haughtily)  He — hem  !  He’s  long — but  nothing 
distingue- — Talbot  now  is  not  what  one  call  a  striking  figure,  but 
there’s  a  concealed  intellectuality — a  hidden  something  or  other — 
you’ll  understand  what  I  mean  but  I’m  at  a  loss  for  the  word  at 
the  moment — that  is  none  the  less  effective  in  the  long  run — (with 
pleasant  earnestness)  a — then,  my  dear  Violet,  he’s  the  heir  to  a 
baronetcy.  He’s  an  embryo  statesman,  and  he  adores  you.  Didn’t 
you  observe  him  at  dinner  ?  He  ate  nothing — drank  nothing — 
which — and  I  say  it  at  the  risk  of  being  considered  a  too  observant 
host — is  more  than  can  be  said  of  young  Middlewick. 

Vio.  (aside)  That’s  true,  for  I  watched  him. 

Char,  (heard  without ,  L.)  Ha!  ha!  ha!  You  play  billiards! 
why,  you  know  as  much  of  the  game  as  the  King  of  Ashanti  knows 
of - 

Tal.  (heard,  L.)  Ha  !  ha  !  Play  you  any  day  in  the  week. 

Mid.  (down)  I  say,  Sir  Geoffry,  them  boys  are  going  it,  ain’t 
they  ? 

Vio.  (aside)  “Them  boys  ! 

Mid.  (aside)  I  see  her  sneer. 

Sir  G.  (aside)  Every  time  he  opens  his  mouth  improves  Talbot’s 
chance. 

Enter,  Charley  and  Talbot  l. — Charley  is  a  little  excited  with 
wine ,  but  not  in  the  least  tipsy — he  has  been  helping  himself  f?'eely 
to  drown  his  annoyance  at  Violet’s  hauteur  and  evident  horror 
of  his  father — Talbot’s  manner  is  of  the  same  washed-out,  flabby 
nature  as  previously  shown. 

Char.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Here’s  Talbot  Champneys  trying  to  argue 
with  me  about  billiards.  Why,  man,  you  can’t  see  as  far  as  the 
spot  ball. 

Sir  G.  The  fact  of  being  short-sighted  is  scarcely  a  happy  sub¬ 
ject  for  jesting. 

Vio.  (with  suppressed  temper)  I  quite  agree  with  you,  Sir 
Geoffry. 

Clar.  (has  entered)  It’s  aristocratic  ;  double  eye-glasses  look 
rather  distingue ,  /think. 

Char,  (at  Violet)  Yes,  those  who  are  not  aristocratic  may 


“  OUR  BOYS r 


23 


sometimes  suffer  from  the  affection.  There  are  short-sighted  fools 
in  the  world  who  are  not  swells. 

Vio.  ( aside )  He  thinks  that  severe. 

Mid.  Bless  your  ’art,  yes  ;  we  had  a  carman  as  was  always 
driving  into  every  think  ;  at  last  he  run  over  a  boy  in  the  Boro’, 
and  that  got  him  his  quietum. 

Char.  Yes,  yes,  you  told  us  before  about  him. 

Mid.  (< aside )  Don’t,  Charley,  don’t.  If  you  only  brought  me  out 
to  shut  me  up,  I  might  as  well  be  a  tellyscoop. 

Sir  G.  ( aside  to  Violet)  Charming  papa-in-law  he’ll  make  to 
somebody. 

Vio.  Don’t,  don’t,  (looking  at  Charley)  He’s  looking  daggers 
at  me,  and  I’ve  done  nothing. 

Tal.  It’s  rather  rich  your  talking  of  beating  me  at  billiards,  con¬ 
sidering  that  I’ve  devoted  the  last  three  years  to  billiards  and 
nothing  else.  % 

Sir  G.  (aside)  The  deuce  he  has  !  That’s  pleasant  for  a  father 
to  hear.  Oh,  a — exaggeration. 

Tal.  It’s  rather  amusing  your  bragging  of  rivalling  me.  And 
when  you  talk  about  my  not  being  able  to  see  the  spot  ball,  all  I 
can  say  is - 

Char.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  If  you  can' t,  you’ve  a  capital  eye  for  the 
pocket,  (at  Violet — Violet  shows  she  sees  the  thrust) 

Mid.  Ah,  well,  bagatelle  s  more  in  my  way.  When  me  and  a 
few  neighbors  used  to  to  take  our  glass  at  the  Peterboro’  Arms, 
we - 

Char.  Yes,  yes,  father - 

Mid.  (aside)  He’s  bit.  That  gal’s  bit  him.  It’ll  be  an  awk¬ 
ward  day  for  Charley  when  he  shows  he’s  ashamed  of  his  gover¬ 
nor. 

Clar.  I  agree  with  Mr.  Middlewick— bagatelle’s  charming. 

Vio.  So  it  is,  Miss  Champneys. 

Clar.  So  innocent. 

Sir  G.  (rising)  Come,  who’s  for  a  game  of  billiards  then?  I 
never  touch  a  cue,  but  I’ll  play  you  fifty  up,  Mr.  Middlewick,  and 
my  sister  here  and  your  son  shall  see  all  fair.  Come,  you  shall 
see  that  there  is  even  a  worse  player  in  the  world  than  yourself. 
(aside)  There  couldn’t  be  a  better  opportunity  for  leaving  Talbot 
and  Violet  alone,  (to  him)  What  say  ? 

Mid.  I’m  agreeable — you  must  teach  me  though. 

Clar.  /will  do  that,  if  you  will  allow  me. 

Mid.  Only  too  happy,  (goes  off t  R.  d.,  with  Clarissa) 

Sir  G.  (aside  to  Talbot)  Now’s  your  time,  bring  matters  to  a 
crisis. 

Vio.  (taking  Sir  Geoffry’s  arm  the  other  side)  Sir  Geoffry, 
I’ll  back  you. 


24 


“  OUR  BO  VSR 


Sir  G.  ( going  towards  R.  D.,  annoyed — aside)  Confound  it !  (to 
Violet)  You  really  are  most — a — 1  can’t  play  a  bit - 

As  they  go  out  Violet  gives  a  sort  of  half  sneering,  half  mischievous 
laugh  at  Charley,  who  can  with  difficulty  restrain  his  annoyance ; 
when  they  are  off \  he  turns,  finding  himself  face  to  face  with  Tal¬ 
bot — Talbot  is  bringing  out  a  pipe,  and  filling  it. 

Char.  Well. 

Tal.  Well. 

Char.  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 

Tal.  What  are  you  ? 

Char.  I  don’t  know. 

Tal.  I  do.  I’m  going  to  have  a  smoke  in  the  stable.  Also  a 
good  think. 

Char.  A  good  what  ? 

Tal.  Think.  I’m  in  love. 

Char.  You ! 

Tal.  Why  shouldn’t  I  be  ?  You  tall  chaps  always  think  you  can 
monopolize  all  the  love-making  in  the  world.  You  can  love  short , 
just  the  same  as  you  can  love  long .  I  tell  you  I’m  gone .  D’ye 
hear  ?  Gone. 

Char.  ( bitterly )  I’m  happy  to  hear  it.  I  shall  be  happier  when 
you  prove  the  fact.  ( moves  away) 

Tal.  I’m  off.  When  you  want  a  weed  you  know  where  to  find 
me.  Exit. 

Char.  In  love ,  is  he?  I  don’t  wonder  at  it — she’d  entice  a  hermit 
from  his  cell — and — and — send  him  back  sold.  She  can’t  have  a 
heart,  (enter  Mary)  Ah,  women  are  all  alike. 

Mary.  What  a  frightful  observation!  And  at  the  top  of  your 
voice  too. 

Char.  I  mean  it. 

Mary.  No,  you  don’t. 

Char.  If  I  don’t  may  I  be - 

Mary.  Jilted  ? 

Char.  Jilted.  The  foolish  phrase  for  one  of  the  cruellest  crimes 
— I  say  it  advisedly,  crimes — that  can  disgrace  female — I  won’t  say 
human — nature. 

Mary.  Dear  !  dear  !  dear  ! 

Char,  [with feeling)  Hearts  are  not  playthings  to  be  broken  like 
children’s  drums  just  to  see  what’s  inside  them.  A  man’s  feelings 
are  not  toys  to  be  trifled  with  and  tossed  aside.  Love  in  a  true 
man  means  love — love  pure  and  simple  and  unselfish — the  devo¬ 
tion  of  his  whole  mind  and  being  to  one  in  whose  weal  or  woe  his 

very  soul’s  wrapped  up.  With  women - 

Mary.  What  a  pity  it  is  Talbot  Champneys  can’t  talk  like  you — 
and  going  into  Parliament  too. 


“  OUR  BOYS r  25 

Char.  Talbot  Champneys — yes — his  relatives  are  well-spoken, 
well-born  somebodies,  and  so  she  favors  him. 

Mary.  She  ?  Who  ? 

Char.  Absurd  !  there’s  only  one  she. 

Mary.  That’s  very  polite  to  me.  I’m  sure. 

Char.  Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean.  In  my  eyes. 

Mary.  Exactly.  But  you  don’t  monopolize  all  the  visual  organs 
of  the  universe.  There  are  other  eyes  that  may  have  looked  else - 
where. 

Char.  Why,  what  on  earth - 

Mary.  ( modestly )  I  don’t  think  Talbot  does  admire  Violet. 

Char.  Eh  ? 

Mary.  Not  so  much  as  he  does — a — somebody  else. 

Char.  Why,  who  is  there  he  could - 

Mary.  Well,  upon  my  word — considering  that  I— {pauses  awk¬ 
wardly ) 

Char.  Why,  what  a  fool  I’ve  been  ! 

Mary.  And  are. 

Char.  But — oh,  impossible  ! 

Mary.  Thank  you. 

Char.  No,  I  don’t  mean  that ,  because,  of  course,  you  are  a 
charming  young  lady,  and - 

Mary.  Thank  you  again. 

Char.  I  mean  it’s  impossible  on  your  side.  I  really  believe  Talbot 
to  be  not  half  a  bad  fellow  in  the  main,  but  his  manner,  his 
appearance,  and - 

Mary.  Oh,  handsome  men  are  like  the  shows  at  the  fairs,  you 
see  all  the  best  outside. 

Char.  There’s  some  truth  in  that,  perhaps. 

Mary.  Talbot  Champneys  isn’t  either  the  fool  he  looks  or  affects 
to  be.  He’s  wonderfully  good-hearted,  I  know,  for  I  watched  his 
manner  only  yesterday  towards  a  crippled  beggar  boy  when  he 
thought  no  one  saw  him  ;  and — and  he  snubs  his  pompous  old 
father  like  a — like  a - 

Char.  A  young  cub. 

Mary.  Well,  a  young  cub’s  better  than  an  old  bear.  I  don’t 
believe  in  surface — I  like  to  know  what’s  inside.  You’ve  often 
noticed  confectioners’  tarts,  with  their  proud  upper-crust — hollow 
mockeries — delusive  shams  ;  when  the  knife  dives  into  their  dim 
recesses  what  does  it  disclose  ?  fruit,  occasionally  ;  syrup,  seldom  ; 
flavor,  never.  Now,  Talbot’s  not  a  confectioner’s  tart ! 

Char.  No,  I  should  say  he  was  more  of  the  cake. 

Mary.  Never  mind,  I  like  cake.  .  He  may  be  eccentric,  but  his 
heart’s  in  the  right  place. 

Char.  That  means  you  ve  got  it. 

Mary.  He  hasn’t  told  me  so. 

Char.  Until  you  make  him  I - 


26 


“OUR  BOYS r 


Mary.  Make  him  !  well,  you  are - 

Sir  G.  (heard,  r. )  Don’t  mention  it — a  trifle. 

Mid.  (heard,  R.)  ’Pon  my  word  I’m  downright - 

Sir  G.  No,  no  ;  not  at  all. 

Char,  (earnestly)  You  will — you  will  make  him  declare  himself, 
Mary  Melrose,  and  make  me  the - 

Enter,  Sir  Geoffry  and  Middlewick,/?//^^^  Violet — Mary 

and  Charley,  sit  up,  l. 

Mid.  I  declare  I  wouldn’t  have  done  such  a  thing  for  any 
money,  (aside)  I  knew  I  should  come  to  grief  at  them  billiards. 

Sir  G.  (blandly)  My  dear  Mr.  Middlewick,  commonest  thing 
with  beginners.  Cutting  the  billiard  cloth  with  the  cue  is  a  trifling 
accident  that  might  happen  with  any  one.  Don’t  mention  it  any 
more,  (aside)  An  awkward  brute.  Treated  the  table  like  his  con¬ 
founded  counter. 

Mid.  (aside)  Serves  me  right,  trying  to  play  billiards,  and  poker- 
back  pretending  HE  couldn’t,  and  him  all  the  time  a  regular  dab. 
He’s  up  to  these  grand  games,  but  one  of  these  days  I’ll  loore  him 
on  to  skittles — and  astonish  him. 

Sir  G.  (aside  to  Middlewick,  pleased)  Middlewick,  look,  my 
dear  sir.  (points  to  Charley  and,  Mary,  in  conversation  up  stage 
on  sociable,  L. )  D’ye  see  that?  Ha!  ha!  Seem  rather  interested 
in  each  other’s  conversation,  eh?  (nudges  him) 

Mid.  Why,  anything  more  like  spooning  I - 

Sir  G.  I  hope,  for  your  sake,  it  may  be  so  ;  that  girl  is  worth  a 
thousand  of  her  haughty  cousin. 

Mid.  (seizing  his  hand)  Ybu’re  right,  Sir  Geoffry.  And  I’m 
proud  to  hear  a  swell  as  is  a  swell  give  vent  to  such  sentiments — 
they  do  you  honor. 

Vio.  (aside)  He  means  to  wound  me — to  insult  me.  Mary  can¬ 
not  willingly  have  lent  herself  to  so  mean  and  poor  a  trick.  She 
is  honest — but  he — (enter,  Clarissa  ;  goes  to  Middlewick)  How 
taken  up  with  each  other  they  seem.  There  isn’t  an  atom  of 
jealousy  about  my  disposition,  but  I’d  give  the  world  to  know  what 
they’re  talking  about.  (Charley  and  Mary  laugh)  Now  they’re 
laughing.  Perhaps  at  me .  Oh,  how  I  wish  Mary  wasn’t  poor — 
I’d  have  such  a  quarrel  with  her. 

Mid.  (aside;  has  been  talking  with  Clarissa)  A  more  sensible 
woman  I  never  come  across. 

Clar.  (aside)  A  delightful  person  if  a  little  eccentric. 

Mid.  (aside)  I’ll  find  out  what  she  thinks  of  my  sentiments 
regarding  Charley’s  fancy. 

Clar.  (aside)  I  hope  his  evident  attentions  to  nie  have  not  been 
noticed  by  my  brother. 

Mid.  (seated  by  her)  Miss  Clarissa — nice  name  Clarissa. 

Clar.  (coquettishly)  Think  so  ? 


27 


“  OUR  BOYS." 

Mid.  Yes — I  wouldn’t  change  it  for  no  other.  Your  other  name 
I  would  though. 

Clar.  [aside)  What  can  he  mean?  These  successful  commercial 
people  are  so  blunt  and  business-like — can  he  possibly  be  about  to 
— [sighs)  Well,  I  must  say  I  consider  him  rather  a  fine  man. 

Sir  G.  [to  Violet,  who  has  been  and  is  watching  Mary  and 
Charley — Sir  Geoffry  has  sat  beside  her)  Depend  upon  it,  ill- 
assorted  marriages  are  a  mistake.  For  instance,  we’ll  say,  young 
Middlewick  there — the  poor  lad’s  in  a  false  position. 

Vio.  [aside,  in  temper)  He  is — sitting  by  her. 

Sir  G.  A  husband’s  relations,  too,  should  not  be  ignored.  Should 
the  young  man  marry  a  lady,  imagine  her  humiliation  at  the 
periodical  visits  of  “  Papa.” 

Vio.  [turning  to  him ,  a  little  nettled)  And  yet  you  tolerate  him 
here — make  much  of  him. 

Sir  G.  My  dear  Violet,  in  the  country  one  is  obliged  to  swallow 
one’s  feelings  occasionally.  I  take  good  care  no  one  shall  ever 
meet  him  for  whom  I  have  the  least — a — he -hem  !  [aside)  Nearly 
put  my  foot  in  it  there. 

Middlewick  and  Clarissa  have  been  conversing  very  earnestly. 

Mid.  Of  course — of  course  when  people  get  to  a  certain  time  of 
life  they  ought  to  settle. 

Charley  and  Maky  stroll  off,  c.  and  r. 

Clar.  My  sentiments  precisely. 

Mid.  And  after  all  high  birth’s  all  very  well,  but  if  the  other 
party  has  the  motiey - 

.  Clar.  Certainly — certainly.  It  may  be  radical  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing,  but  give  me  intellect  before  mere  family.  And  1  am 
worldly  enough  to  revere  success — such  as  yours,  for  instance. 

Mid.  [aside)  She  certainly  is  one  of  the  most  sensible  women  I 
— and  after  all  they’d  make  an  uncommon  handsome  couple - 

Clar.  Eh  ? 

Mid.  Charley  and - 

Sir  G.  ( abruptly ,  and  annoyed)  Clarissa,  my  dear,  where  on 
earth  has  Talbot  got  to  ! 

Clar.  ( rising ,  enraged  at  discovery  of  her  mistake  in  Middle¬ 
wick)  How  should  /  know  where  he’s  got  to! 

Sir  G.  [astonished)  Why,  gracious  me  !  My  dear,  I — [aside  to 
her,  but  aloud)  Remember,  Clarissa,  if  you  please,  there  are  visi¬ 
tors  present. 

Clar.  Visitors  indeed  !  Such  canaille  !  [goes  up  and  exit) 

Mid.  [aside)  I  heard  you,  my  lady.  So  the  old  ones  going 
in  for  snubs  as  well  as — It’s  the  last  time  me  or  Charley  sets  a  foot 
in  this  'ouse. 


28 


“ OUR  BOYS.” 


Vio.  ( who  has  gone  up  to  conservatory  ;  looking  off}  How  mean 
I  feel,  watching  them.  I’ll — I’ll  leave  this  house  to-morrow. 

Sir  G.  [aside]  What  on  earth’s  the  matter  with  the  woman? 
Something’s  annoyed  her,  but  she  mustn’t  be  rude  to  my  guests.  I 
have  one  system  with  my  son,  my  servants,  and — yes,  and  my 
sister .  She  must  come  back  at  once  and — Miss  Melrose — Middle- 
wick,  excuse  me  a  moment  or  two.  Exit,  r.  d.  . 

Mid.  All  alone  with  Miss  High-and-mighty  !  Hang  me  if  I 
don’t  tackle  her!  You’ll — you’ll  excuse  me,  Miss,  but - 

Vio.  [in  horror]  Oh,  pray  don’t  say  “  Miss.” 

Mid.  [softened]  Eh?  [aside]  not  “Miss?”  [to  her]  Well,  then, 
we’ll  say  “Voylet.” 

Vio.  [disgusted,  but  unable  to  restrain  her  amusement]  Mr.  Mid- 
dlewick,  you  really  are  too  absurd  ! 


She  moves  towards  R.  door,  and  exit ;  as  she  does  so  Charley 
enters,  Q..,  from  l.,  and  is  about  to  follow  her . 

Mid.  [aside]  If  ever  I  set  foot  again  in  this  house — [catches 
Charley  by  the  arm,  and  turns  him  round  abruptly  towards  him - 
self) 

Char.  Why,  dad,  I - 

Mid.  Charley,  where  are  you  a  going  of? 

Char.  ( annoyed )  Oh  !  father,  I  really - 

Mid.  [severely)  Charles  Middlewick,  you’re  a  going  after  that 
young  lady. 

Char.  Well,  sir,  if  I  am  f 

Mid.  Charley,  I  don’t  want  you  and  me  to  fall  out.  We  never 
have  yet.  All’s  been  smooth  and  pleasant  with  me  hitherto,  but 
when  I  do  cut  up  rough,  Charley,  I  cut  up  that  rough  as  the  road 
a  being  repaired  afore  the  steam  roller  tackles  it  is  simply  a  feather 
bed  compared  to  your  father. 

Char.  I  don’t  understand  you. 

Mid.  [with  suppressed  passion)  Obey  me  and  my  nature’s  olive 
ile  ;  go  agin  me  and  it’s  still  ile,  but  it’s  ile  of  vitterel. 

Char.  If,  sir,  you’re  alluding  to  my  feelings  towards  Miss  Mel¬ 
rose,  I - 

Mid.  I  am.  Think  no  more  of  her.  Between  you  and  her  there’s 
a  gulf,  Charles  Middlewick,  and  that  gulf’s  grammar.  Perhaps 
you  think  I’m  too  ignorant  to  know  what  pride  means.  I’m  not. 
If  you  ever  cared  for  this  stuck-up  madam  you  must  forget  her. 
[determined)  She  ain’t  my  sort  ;  never  will  be,  and  she  shan’t  be 
my  daughter-in-law  neither. 

Char.  You  have  always  prided  yourself  on  allowing  me  my  own 
way  in  everything — it  was  your  system,  as  you  called  it — and  now, 
when  it  comes  to  a  matter  in  which  my  whole  future  happiness  is 
involved,  you  are  cruel  enough  to - 

Mid.  [sharply)  Cruel  only  to  be  kind,  Charley.  You  wouldn’t 


29 


“OUR  BO  VSR 

marry  a  woman  who  despised  your  father?  (Charley  moves  aside, 
ashamed ;  pause)  If  you  would,  if  you  do,  I  11  cut  you  off  with  a 
shilling.  I — I — [in  a  rage)  Why  don't  you  meet  me  half  way  and 
say  you’ll  obey  me,  you  shilly-shally  numskull! 

Char,  (in  a  passion)  You  have  no  right  to  speak  like  this  to  me, 
if  you  are  my  father,  (pause  ;  Middlewick  astonished) 

Mid.  (in  softer  voice)  He’s  right,  he’s  quite  right ;  calling  names 
never  did  no  good  at  any  time,  (to  hint)  Leastaways  not  a  num¬ 
skull,  Charley,  of  course  ;  that  was  a  “  lapsy  lingo,”  a  slip  of  the 
pen,  you  know.  I’m  speaking  for  your  good.  You’re  her  equal 
in  everything  except  one,  Charley — I’m  rich,  but  I’m  a  common, 
ignorant  man.  Wait,  anyhow,  until — until  I — I — ain’t  here  to  dis¬ 
grace  you.  (turns  aside ,  breaks  down) 

Char,  (after  slight  pause)  My  dear,  kind  dad,  there’s  nothing  in 
the  world  I  wouldn’t  sacrifice  to  please  you - 

Mid.  (turns  to  him ,  pleased)  Ah  ? 

Char.  But  in  this  instance - 

Mid.  (turning  back  grumpily)  Hah! 

Char.  I  can  never  be  happy  without  Violet  Melrose. 

Mid.  Then  make  up  your  mind  to  be  miserable. 

Char.  The  appearance  of  superciliousness  which  you  imagine 
you - 

Mid.  Imagine — but  it  ain’t  for  you  to  bandy  any  further  words 
with  me.  If  you  disappoint  me,  disobey  me,  defy  me,  take  the  con¬ 
sequences.  Say  good-bye  to  your  father,  live  on  Violet  Melrose’s 
money,  but  don’t  be  surprised  when  your  grand  lady  wife  taunts 
you  with  your  mean  position  and  flings  your  vulgar  father's  butter 
shop  in  your  teeth.  (Charley  attempts  to  speak)  Not  a  word — I’ve 
said  my  say,  and  what  I  have  said,  Charles  Middlewick’ s,  my 
ultipomatum.  Exit,  L.  D. 

Char,  (distracted)  Every  word  he  said  was  true,  and  cut  like  a 
knife  !  How  can  I  tell  him  that  I  know  Violet’s  apparent  super¬ 
cilious  manner  is  only  on  the  surface?  That — But  Ait?  Am  I 
fooling  myself  all  the  while  ?  Does  my  blind  admiration  make  me 
— I’ll  speak  to  her,  learn  the  real  depth  of  this  seeming  pride, 
and ( is  going  r.  ) 

Mary  enters  R. 

Mary.  Oh,  such  fun  ! 

Char,  (disgusted)  Fun! 

Mary.  Yes,  I’ve  completely  taken  in  the  old  gentleman. 

Char.  I  believe  you’re  capable  of  it. 

Mary.  With  half-a-dozen  joking  remarks  in  admiration  of  you, 
I’ve  completely  put  him  off  the  scent.  He  firmly  belives  that 
we’re  awfully  spoons,  and  that  his  son’s  only  to  ask  Violet  to  be 
accepted. 

Char.  So  you  did  that,  did  you  ? 


30 


“  OUR  BOYS r 


Mary.  Yes,  I  did,  and  Sir  Geoffry’s  simply  in  raptures  at  the 
success  of  his  system,  as  he  calls  it,  and  Violet  the - 

Char,  [in  rage )  You’ve  made  matters  ten  times  worse  with  your 
meddling  interference.  You — you’ve  widened  the  gulf,  and  still 
further  estranged  us.  But  come  what  may  I’ll  speak  out  and 
bring  her  to  the  point,  if  it’s  under  the  baronet’s  very  nose  !  I — * 
Ugh!  [ with  an  exclamation  of  intense  vexation  at  Mary,  exit,  R.) 

Mary,  [after  a  blank  look)  Moral!  Mary  Melrose,  my  dear,  for 
the  rest  of  your  natural  life  never  attempt  to  do  anything  kind  for 
anybody.  I’ll  become  supremely  selfish,  and  settle  down  into  a 
narrow-minded  and  highly  acidulated  old  maid. 

Enter,  Talbot,  C .,from  R. 

Tal.  Who’s  that  talking  about  old  maids? 

Mary.  I  was. 

Tal.  Why,  you’re  all  alone. 

Mary.  Yes,  I  like  to  be  alone. 

Tal.  That  means  I’m  to - 

Mary.  Oh,  no,  you’re - 

Tal.  Nobody.  Don’t  count.  Thanks. 

Mary.  I  didn’t  say  that. 

Tal.  No,  but  you  meant  it. 

Mary.  Why  ? 

Tal.  Because  you  didn’t  say  it.  [pause) 

Mary.  What  do  you  mean? 

Tal.  What  I  say. 

Mary.  What’s  that? 

Tal.  Nothing. 

Mary.  Then  you  mean  nothing. 

Tal.  On  the  contrary,  I  mean  a  lot,  but  I  can’t  say  it. 

Mary.  Then  I  wouldn’t  try. 

Tal.  I  won’t,  [slight  pause)  I  say,  Miss  Melrose,  do  you  know 
I’m  dreadfully  afraid  of  you. 

Mary.  Am  I  so  very  terrible  ? 

Tal.  You’re  so  fearfully  sensible,  you  know — so  satirical  and 
cutting,  and  “awfully  clever,”  and  I’m  not,  you  know. 

Mary.  Not  what,  you  know? 

Tal.  None  of  that,  you  know.  I’m  a — a — muff,  that’s  what  / 
am.  I  haven’t  got  a  second  idea.  I  don’t  believe  I’ve  got  a  first, 
but  I’ll  swear  I  haven’t  a  second. 

Mary.  Well,  at  all  events,  you’re  not  conceited. 

Tal.  What  on  earth  have  /got  to  be  conceited  about  ?  What 
are  my  accomplishments  ?  I  can  play  a  fair  game  of  billiards, 
though  I’m  too  short-sighted  for  cricket.  I  can  stick  on  the  maddest 
horse  that  ever  gladdened  a  coroner,  and  I  can  smoke  like — like 
Sheffield.  Not  much  to  recommend  oneself  to  a  woman,  eh? 

Mary.  I  don’t  know.  Miss  Melrose,  for  instance,  my  rich  and 


“  our  boys:1  31 

handsome  cousin,  has  a  great  admiration  for  the  Guy  Livingstone 
virtues. 

Tal.  Don’t  like  her — at  least,  don’t  admire  her. 

Mary.  Why  not  ? 

Tal.  Because  I’ve  been  commanded  to.  Private  feelings  ain’t 
private  soldiers — you  can’t  order  them  about  and  drill  them  like 
dolls.  Human  nature’s  obstinate  as  a  rule.  Do  you  know  how 
they  get  the  pigs  on  board  ? 

Mary.  No. 

Tal.  Put  their  noses  towards  the  vessel  and  then  try  and  pull 
them  away,  backwards.  The  result  is  that  they  run  up  the  plank 
into  the  vessel  immediately .  /’ m  a  pig. 

Mary.  You  don’t  say  so? 

Tal.  And  my  sentiments  are  pig-headed ,  my  governor’s  are  pig¬ 
tailed — that’s  to  say,  old-fashioned — the  “  old  school,”  strict  v 
obedience,  marry  according  to  orders ,  you  know,  eh?  [nudges  her) 
Ha  !  ha  !  Some  of  us  know  a  trick  worth  two  of  that,  eh  ? 

Mary.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Tal.  [laughs  with  her )  You’re  a  sharp  one,  you  are.  [nudges  her) 

Mary.  So  are  you. 

Tal.  Am  I,  though  ? 

Mary.  Only  in  the  elbow.  Suppose  you  sit  a  little  further  off ; 
you  never  crowd  up  so  closely  to  Violet. 

Tal.  No,  I’m  not  given  to  poaching. 

Mary.  Poaching  !  Eggs  ? 

Tal.  Eggs  be — hatched!  Haven’t  you  seen  Charley  Middle- 
wick  loves  her  as  much  as — as — [aside)  I’ll  go  it  now — I’m  wound 
up  to  go  it,  and  go  it  I  will. 

Mary.  As  much  as  what ? 

Tal.  As  I  lo ve  you. 

Mary,  [rising)  Mr.  Champneys  ! 

Tal.  [rising)  No,  no,  no,  I  don’t  mean  that. 

Mary.  No! 

Tal.  Yes,  yes,  I  do ,  but  in  another  way.  I  mean  he  doesn’t 
love  her  half  as  much  as  I  love  you. 

Mary.  You  don’t  know  your  own  mind. 

Tal.  Don’t  want  to.  I  want  to  know  yours. 

Mary.  You  don’t  mean  half  you  say. 

Tal.  No,  I  don’t.  I  mean  it  all. 

Mary.  Your  father’d  disown  you. 

Tal.  So  he  might  if  I  owned  you. 

Mary.  You  silly  boy,  what  are  you  talking  about?  I  haven  t  a 
penny  in  the  world. 

Tal.  Even  if  you  did  possess  that  humble  but  heavy  coin,  it 
could  scarce  be  considered  capital ,  could  it?  A  start  at  house¬ 
keeping  on  a  ha’penny  a-piece  would  be  a  trifle  rash,  not  to  say 
risky. 


32 


“OUR  BOYS ” 


Mary.  Housekeeping,  indeed  !  Well,  I  like  your  impudence - * 

Tal.  I  adore  yours. 

Mary.  I  never  was  impertinent  in  my  life. 

Tal.  Then  don’t  contradict.  When  I  say,  “  Be  mine,”  don’t 
say  “  Snan’t.” 

Mary.  I  won’t. 

Tal.  Won’t  what? 

Mary.  Say  “  shan’t.” 

Tal.  ( delighted )  Do  you  mean  it  ? 

Mary.  Talbot,  you’ve  had  too  much  wine. 

Tal.  I  admit  it. 

Mary.  You  have  admitted  it.  If  your  father  suspected  this  he’d 
cut  you  off  with  a  shilling. 

Tal.  That’s  fivepence  a  piece  better  than  your  penny.  We’re 
getting  on. 

Mary.  You  quite  take  one’s  breath  away — I  don’t  know  what  to 
say. 

Tal.  Let  me  say  it  for  you. 

Mary.  No,  no,  I  never  was  proposed  to  before. 

Tal.  How  do  you  like  it  ? 

Mary.  But  I’ve  read  about  people  proposing  and — and — ( inno¬ 
cently )  They’ve  always  gone  on  their  knees. 

Tal.  I’ll  go  on  my  head'd  it’ll  only  please  you. 

Mary.  No,  no,  don’t,  it  might  give  way. 

Tal.  Well,  as  far  a  knee  goes — here  goes — there  !  ( kneels ) 

Mary.  And  then  the  lover  always  made  a  beautiful  speech. 

Tal.  /  know.  Most  adorable  of  your  sex,  a  cruel  parent  com¬ 
mands  me  to  love  another — I  wont — I  can’t — I  adore  you — you 
alone.  I  despise  heiresses,  I  despise  Parliamentary  honors,  a 
public  career,  and  all  that  bosh .  (Sir  Geoffry  and  Middlewick 
have  appeared ,  C.  ;  Sir  Geoffry  now  staggers, and  supports  him¬ 
self  on  Middlewick’s  arm)  I  prefer  love  in  a  cottage.  I  like  love 
— I  like  a  cottage,  where  a  fellow  can  smoke  where  he  likes, 
and - 

Sir  G.  [bursting  out)  You  shall  have  your  wish,  sir.  You  shall 
have  your  love  and  your  cottage,  and  your  smoke  and — and — 
[breaking  down)  Talbot — Talbot,  what  does  this  mean? 

Tal.  It  means  that  I’ve  made  my  own  bargain — you  can’t  call 
it  an  ugly  one,  can  you  ?  (Sir  Geoffry  overcome) 

Mid.  [almost  unable  to  control  his  amusement)  Never  mind, 
Champneys,  it  might  have  been  worse.  She’s  a  proper  sort,  is 
Mary. 

Sir  G.  Don’t  “Champneys”  me,  sir.  I’ll — I’ll  turn  him  out ! 

Mid.  Well,  he  hasn’t  turned  out  himself  quite  as  you  fancied  he 
would,  eh  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Who  was  right  in  his  system  now,  eh? 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  [as  he  is  laughing,  Charley  is  heard ) 


“ OUR  BOYS 33 

Char.  ( without ,  R.)  My  darling,  I’ll  put  the  whole  matter  right 
in  a  moment. 

Enter  Charley,  holding  V iolet ’  s  hand ,  c. ,  from  R. ;  pause  abruptly 

on  seeing  the  others. 

Mid.  W-w-wliat’s  this,  Charles  Middlewick  ?  Who  is  this  you 
are - 

Char.  This,  father,  is  my  wife ,  or  will  be,  when  I  have  your  con¬ 
sent. 

Mid.  ( overcome  with  rage)  Why,  you  confounded - 

Sir  G.  (taking  tip  same  tone)  Insolent,  presuming  young  upstart, 
why,  I - 

Mid.  (in  rage ,  to  Sir  Geoffry)  Don’t  bully  my  son,  sir  ;  don’t 
bully  my  son — that’s  my  department. 

Sir  G.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Finely  your  system  has  succeeded,  eh ? 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Mid.  We’re  insulted,  defied,  both  of  us.  (excitedly)  Turn  your 
disobedient  cub  adrift  if  you’ve  the  courage  to  stick  to  your  prin¬ 
ciples. 

Sir  G.  And  kick  out  your  cad  of  a  lad  if  your  sentiments  are  not 
a  snare  and  a  delusion. 

Charley  and  Violet,  Talbot  and  Mary,  adl  in  a  state  of  sup¬ 
pressed  excitement ,  have  been  earnestly  talking  in  an  undertone 

dating  the  blustering  row  of  the  fathers — Clarissa  enters. 

Mid.  So  I  will,  sir,  so  I  will.  Charles  Middlewick,  madam,  that 
boy’s  no  longer  any  son  of  mine.  If  you  accept  him  you  blight 
his  prospects. 

Clar.  Mr.  Middlewick,  are  you  aware  that  Miss  Melrose  is - 

Sir  G.  (* violently )  Don’t  you  dare  to  interfere,  madam. 

Vio.  I  have  accepted  him,  sir,  and  I  will  not  blight  his  pros¬ 
pects. 

Middlewick  overcome  with  rape. 

o 

Sir  G.  (to  Talbot)  And  as  iox  you,  you  impostor! 

Tal.  That’ll  do.  I  won’t  trouble  you  any  longer.  I’m  off. 

Sir  G.  Off,  sir !  where  ? 

Tal,  That’s  my  business. 

Char,  (taking  Talbot’ s  hand)  Yes,  our  business. 

Mid.  Oh,  yes — you  can  go  with  him  if  you  please,  and  a  good 
riddance. 

Sir  G.  Go — go  and  starve. 

Tal.  That  we  can  do  without  your  permission,  anyhow.  You’ve 
kicked  us  out,  remember,  father,  because,  being  grown  men,  we’ve 
set  our  affections  where  our  hearts  have  guided  us — not  your 


34 


"OUR  BOYS." 


heads.  And — and — Charley,  finish  it.  I’m  not  an  orator,  and 
don’t  want  to  be. 

Char,  [to girls)  We’ll  prove  ourselves  worthy  of  you  by  our  own 
unaided  exertions,  and  will  neither  of  us  ask  you  to  redeem  your 
promise  till  we’ve  shown  ourselves  worthy  of  your  esteem.  We 
can  get  our  living  in  London,  and  rely  upon  it  you  ll  never  hear  of 
our  distress  should  we  suffer  it. 

Clar.  [distressed)  Talbot,  my  dear  nephew,  you - 

Sir  G.  (violently)  Hold  your  tongue  ! 

Vio.  (half  crying  ;  to  the  fathers)  You’re  a  couple  of  hardhearted 
monsters,  and  I  don’t  know  which  I  hate  the  most. 

Mary.  No — nor  which  is  the  uglier  of  the  two. 

Charley  taking  farewell  of  Violet,  kisses  her  hand — Talbot 
tries  to  get  at  Mary  ;  intercepted  by  his  Aunt. 

Sir  G.  (aside ;  violently  shaking  Middlewick’s  hand)  You’ve 
acted  nobly,  sir — you — you’re  a  downright  Roman  father. 

Mid.  (reciprocating)  You're  another. 

/  m 

The  two  old  men  shaking  each  other  s  hands  violently  but  evidently 
overcome  by  mingled  emotions — Talbot  pushes  his  Aunt  aside , 
and  flings  his  arms  round  Mary,  kissing  her  audibly  ;  Clarissa 
falls  upon  ottoman  ;  on  the  movement  of  the  scene. 

ACT  DROP. 

Second  Picture. — Clarissa  discovered  fainting ;  Violet  holdmg 
scent  bottle  to  her  nose — Mary  at  back  waving  ha?idkerchief  on 
terrace ,  off,  r.;  Sir  Geoffry  in  easy-chair ,  overcome — Middle- 
wick,  with  hands  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets ,  standing  doggedly . 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  III. 

Scene. — The  third  floor  at  Mrs.  Patcham’s — a  very  shabby  sitting* 
room  in  a  third-rate  lodging  house — a  tapping  heard  at  the  door , 
in  flat ,  repeated ,  and  then  Belinda,  a  slatternly  lodging-house 
serva?it ,  puts  her  head  in. 

Bel.  Was  you  ringing?  Please,  was  you  a - (enters,  carrying 

an  empty  coal  box)  Neither  of  ’em  here.  Bother  them  cinders,  if 
I  had  my  way  with ’em  I’d  chuck  ’em  out  of  winder  instead  of  hav- 


“  OUR  BOYS .” 


35 


in g  to  carry  ’em  downstairs  as  careful  as  coals.  Coals  !  Precious 
few  of  them  the  young  gents  has,  and  prices  a  rising  dreadful. 
For  they  are  gents,  if  they  do  buy  only  kitchen  ones  and  has 

’em  in  by  the  yunderd.  What  a  fire !  it’s  as  pinched  up  as - [is 

about  to  give  it  a  vigorous  poke  when  she  is  restramea  by  the  e>i trance 
<?/■  Talbot,  d.  f. — he  is  shabby ,  and  a  great  cotitrast  to  his  former 
showy  self ) 

Tal.  ( sharply )  Now  then  ! 

Bel.  ( turns  with  the  poker  in  her  hand )  Eh  ? 

Tal.  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 

Bel.  Only  going  to - 

Tal.  Of  course.  Strike  a  little  fire  like  that,  it’s  cowardly. 

Bel.  Shall  I  put  some  more  coal  on  ? 

Tal.  Certainly  not. 

Bel.  You  wouldn’t  let  it  go  out? 

Tal.  Why  not?  It’s  a  free  country. 

Bel.  [aside)  Sometimes  I  think  they’re  both  a  little — [touches  her 
head)  It’s  too  much  study,  that’s  what  it  is.  [sweeps  up  the 
hearth) 

Tal.  [aside)  Capital  girl,  this  ;  simple  and  honest.  A  downright 
daughter  of  the  soil,  and  carries  her  parentage  in  her  countenance. 
[direct)  Perhaps  you  had  better  put  a  pinch  or  two  on.  Mr. 
Middlewick  will  be  in  directly,  [she  goes  into  room)  He’ll  be  cold, 
poor  fellow,  though,  of  course,  he’ll  swear  he  isn’t.  I’m  getting 
uneasy  about  Charley.  Ever  since  I  was  seedy,  and  he  sat  up  so 
much  with  me  I’ve  noticed  a  change  in  him  ;  if  he  doesn’t  improve 
I  shall — [crash  of  coals  heard)  There’s  a  suspicious,  not  to  say  a 
shallow,  sound  about  those  coals.  (Belinda  enters  with  shovel  of 
coals) 

Bel.  I  tell  you  what,  sir,  your  coals  are  dreadful  low. 

Tal.  Low!  Blackguardly,  /call  them  ! 

Bel.  I  can  easily  order  some  more  when  I  go  to  Loppit’s ! 

Tal.  Just  so.  Whether  Loppit  would  see  it  in  the  same  light’s  a 
question.  There  is  already  a  trifling  account  which - 

Bel.  Oh,  Loppit  can  wait. 

Tal.  He  can — short  weight.  By  the  way,  I  saw  some  boxes  in 
the  hall. 

Bel.  Yes,  missus  has  gone  out  of  town  for  a  fortnight,  and - 

[is  about  to  put  on  the  lot  of  coal) 

Tal.  Gently — a  bit  at  a  time,  [takes  up  a  piece  with  the  tongs) 
There — there — [business)  I  say,  Belinda,  if  Loppit  were  to  call  nis 
coals ‘‘not  so  dusty”  it  would  be  paying  them  a  compliment, 
wouldn’t  it  ? 

Bel.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Well,  you  are  a  funny  gent,  you  are. 

As  Talbot  makes  up  the  fire  Charley  enters,  d.  f. — he  too  is 

shabby ,  and  looks  worn — he  carries  some  papers,  and  MSS. 


36 


“our  boys:' 


Char.  Halloa  !  Talbot,  old  man,  what  are  you  doing  now  ? 

Tal.  Giving  Belinda  a  lesson  in  domestic  economy — you  know 
a  severe  winter  always  hardens  the  coal-merchant’s  heart! 

Char.  Yes,  yes.  ( takes  off  gloves  and  hat') 

Tal.  And  they’re  simply  going  up  like — like - 

Char.  Smoke  ! 

Tal.  There  !  ( has  done  fire ,  stands  before  it ,  facing  Charley  ; 
Belinda  takes  back  shovel  into  room)  I  consider  I  make  a  first-rate 
fire. 

Char.  Yes,  you  don’t  make  a  bad  screen . 

Tal.  I  beg  your  pardon.  ( moves  aside) 

Char.  Don’t  mention  it.  The  attitude  and  position  are 
thoroughly  insular  and  Britannic.  It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  an 
Englishman  who  never  turns  his  back  on  the  fire  of  an  enemy 
invariably  does  it  with  his  friends’. 

Tal.  [aside)  We’ve  got  our  “  sarcastic  stop”  on  this  morning, 
eh?  Well,  Charley,  I  suppose  you  did  no  good  with  Gripner? 

Char.  I  had  a  highly  interesting  interview  with  that  worthy  pub¬ 
lisher.  I  thought  you  thought  that  the  poem  I  commenced  at 
Cologne  for  amusement,  had  some  stuff  in  it ! 

Tal.  Stuff!  Yidi—full  of  it. 

Char.  Exactly.  Partial  friends  have  declared  I  had  a  real  vein 
of  poetry,  but  Gripner — Ha  !  ha  !  He — well,  he  disguised  his  senti¬ 
ments  by  assuring  me  poetry  was  a  mere  drug  in  the  market. 
He’d  also  thrown  his  eye  on  those  social  sketches  I’d  thought  were 
rather  smart,  but  he  said  he  knew  at  least  fifty  people  who  can  roll 
out  such  things  by  the  ream.  However,  he’s  given  us  a  dozen 
pages  a-piece  for  his  new  gazetteer.  We  begin  in  the  middle  of 
M — you  can  start  at  Mesopotamia,  and  work  your  way  on  at  ten 
shillings  a  column.  ( hands  him  fi of  ers)  It’s  bread  and  cheese  ! 

Tal.  I  should  think  so.  Ten  shillings  a  column,  [unfolds paper ; 
printed  sheets)  By  Jove,  they  are  columns  though.  Regular  Dukes 
of  York.  Penny  a  lining’s  coining  compared  to  it.  I  can’t  say  at 
the  moment  I  know  much  about  Mesopotamia,  but - 

Char.  I  remembered  old  Mother  Patcham  had  a  dilapidated 
gazetteer  downstairs,  so  I  borrowed  it,  and  you  can  copy  the  actual 
facts. 

Tal.  Just  so.  Put  it  all  in  different  language. 

Char.  Yes,  the  more  indifferent  the  better. 

Tal.  Her  book’s  about  twenty  years  old  ;  nevermind — I’ll  double 
the  population  everywhere — that’ll  do  it. 

Char.  Talking  about  population,  I’ve  had  an  interview  with  the 
agent  for  emigration  to  Buenos  Ayres — he  rather  pooh-poohed  us 
as  emigrants.  They  don’t  want  gentlemen. 

Tal.  We  don’t  appear  in  particular  request  anywhere.  It  seems 
absurd  to  be  hard-up  in  the  Cattle  Show  week. 

Char.  Our  governors  are  up  in  town,  I’ll  swear. 


“  our  boys:1 


37 


Tal.  Mine  never  missed  the  show  for  forty  years.  I  can  see  him 
critically  examining  the  over-fed  monsters — punching  the  pigs  and 
generally  disturbing  the  last  hours  of  the  vaccine  victims. 

Char.  Whom  I  envy.  What  a  glorious  condition  is  theirs — fed 
on  the  daintiest  food — watched  and  waited  on  like  princes — ■ 
admired  by  grazing — I  mean  gazing  crowds,  and - 

Tal.  Eventually  eaten,  don’t  forget  that.  I’llgoasfaras  the 
sheep  with  you,  they  can  do  what  we  can’t. 

Char.  What’s  that? 

Tal.  Get  a  living  out  of  their  pens. 

Char.  Beginning  to  joke  now.  You’re  a  changed  being,  Talbot. 

Tal.  Yes.  Genuine  “  hard-upishness  ”  is  a  fine  stimulant  to 
the  imagination.  The  sensation  of  four  healthy  appetites  a  day, 
with - 

Char.  The  power  of  only  partially  appeasing  two - 

Tal.  Exactly — makes  a  fellow - 

Char.  Thin.  Our  cash  is  assuming  infinitesimal  proportions, 
Talbot.  We  must  still  further  reduce  our  commissariat.  I’ve 
been  calculating,  and  I  find  that  henceforth  bacon  at  breakfast 
must  be  conspicuous  by  its  absence. 

Tal.  Bacon — the  word  suggests  philosophy,  so  with  many  thanks 
for  past  favors,  “bye-bye,  Bacon.” 

Char.  When  we  first  parted  with  our  convertible  property,  we 
had  hope  in  our  hearts  and  cash  in  our  money  box.  Now  things 
don’t  look  rosy  we  must  bow  to  circumstances.  “  Tempora 
mutantur. 

Tal.  “  Et  nos  mutamur  in  illis.” 

Char.  Which  being  loosely  translated - 

Tal.  Means  that  we  must  give  up  the  Times  and  take  in  the 
Telegraph. 

Char.  We’ve  parted  with  a  good  many  things,  Talbot,  but 
we’ve  stuck  to  one — our  word.  We’ve  never  appealed  to  a  rela¬ 
tion. 

Tal.  Except,  of  course,  a  certain  avuncular  relative  who - - 

Char.  Shall  be  nameless.  Just  so — but  our  governors  must  have 
discovered  by  this  time  that  our  determination  was  no  empty 
beast,  and  Violet  and  Mary  have  never  heard  a  word  from  either 
of  us.  No  one  can  say  we’ve  shown  the  white  feather. 

Tab  One  minute — I  must  clean  my  boots.  ( takes  up  boots ,  and 
brings  blacking-bottle  from  corner  with  a  bit  of  stick  in  it ,  and  boot 
brushes ) 

Char.  Why  on  earth  do  you  always  begin  to - 

Tal.  [blacking  boot )  Always  begin  to  clean  my  boots  when  you 
talk  about  Violet  and  Mary?  Because  I  feel  it’s  necessary  at  the 
mention  of  their  names  to  work  off  my  superabundant  and  irre¬ 
pressible  emotion.  I  feel  if  I  don’t  have  ago  in  at  my  boots,  I 
shall  do  some  awful — ( begins  to  brush  violently )  Now  go  it! 


38 


“  OUR  BOYS" 


Char.  Do  you  know,  Talbot,  I  could  almost  swear  I  saw  Violet 
to-day  ? 

Tal.  You  don’t  say  so  ! 

Char.  And  I  vow  I  saw  Mary. 

Tal.  Hah!  ( brush  ing  w  ith  tremendo  us  v  iolence ) 

Char.  I  don’t  think  they  saw  me%  but - 

Tal.  ( at  the  boot )  What  a  shine  there’ll  be  in  a  moment ! 

Char.  For  I  dodged  behind  a  cab  and - 

Enter,  Belinda,  d.  f. 

Tal.  And  got  away  without - 

Bel.  { brusquely )  What  are  you  doing  of?  Drop  them  boots. 

Tal.  Belinda  ! 

Bel.  I  clean  the  lodgers’  boots.  And  it’s  my  place  to  clean 
yours — if  you  are  a  third  floorer,  [takes  boot  and  brush  from  Tal¬ 
bot) 

Tal.  [aside)  A  third  floorer  ! 

Char.  Belinda,  don’t  talk  as  if  you  were  reporting  a  prize  fight. 

(Belinda  cleans  boots) 

Tal.  And  deal  gently  with  the  heels  ;  they  won’t  be  trifled  with. 

Char.  I’ve  got  a  deuce  of  a  headache,  Talbot,  and  as  I  want  a 
good  afternoon’s  dig  at  the  gazetteer,  I’ll  go  and  lie  down  a  bit  in 
my  den. 

Tal.  Do.  I  heard  you  walking  up  and  down  the  room  half  the 
night;  you’re  getting  ill! 

Char.  Not  a  bit,  old  man,  not  a  bit.  [goes  towards  door)  Nerves 
a  little  shaky,  that’s  all — that’s  all.  Exit,  D.  f. 

Bel.  I  tell  you  what — it’s  my  opinion  you  wasn’t  half  as  ill  as 
you’ll  soon  have  Mr.  Middlesex  ! 

Tal.  Middl ewick,  Belinda.  It’s  the  natural  obstinacy  of  your 
nature  to  call  people  out  of  their  names.  My  name  being  Champ- 
neys,  you  call  me  Chimneys —  had  it  been  Chimneys  you’d  have 
had  it  Chimbley,  of  course,  [aside)  She’s  right,  though.  I’ll  go 
and  ask  Barnard  to  come  round  and  see  him.  [takes  up  hat)  I 
shall  be  in  soon.  By  the  way,  those  breakfast  things  are  ?iot  an 
ornament — if,  in  a  lucid  interval,  you  should  feel  disposed  to  take 
them  down  stairs,  I  shall  not  feel  offended.  Exit,  D.  F. 

Bel.  He’s  a  queer  young  gent,  that  ;  so  are  both  of  ’em.  But, 
somehow,  I’ve  took  to  ’em — took  to  ’em  /mnendous.  I  wonder 
who  they  are.  I’m  sure  they’re  gentlemen  ’cos  they  can’t  do  noth¬ 
ing  for  a  living.  Then  they  don’t  bully  a  poor  lodging-house 
slavey.  “Slavey” — that’s  what  they  call  me,  but,  somehow,  it 
don’t  seem  rude  like  from  them .  Missis  says  they’re  “  under  a 
cloud,”  she  thinks,  and  she’s  always  in  a  regler  fluster  every 
Saturday  till  they’ve  paid  their  rent.  Ha,  well,  they  knows  their 
own  business  [the  door  in  flat  opens  and  Sir  Geoffry  enters,  then 


11  OUR  BO  vs:1  39 

Middlewick — Belinda  is  placing  the  things  on  tray )  best,  I  sup¬ 
pose.  Couldn’t  stand  by  and  see  him  a  blacking  his - 

Sir  G.  He-hem  !  (Belinda  starts) 

Mid.  {other side  of  her)  He-hem! 

Bel.  Bless  us,  who  ar e  you?  ( retires  up  a  little) 

The  two  old  gentlemen  look  round  the  room  with  a  rueful  expression 
of  countenance ,  then  they  look  at  each  other  blankly. 

Mid.  Well? 

Sir  G.  Well ! 

Mid.  A — here  we  are. 

Sir  G.  Confound  it,  sir,  don’t  talk  like  a  clown. 

Mid.  I  won’t.  ( aside ,  ?niserably)  I  don’t  feel  like  one.  Panta¬ 
loon,  and  a  worse  treated  one  than  ornery’s  more  in  my  way  a 
deal. 

Sir  G.  Why — why  it's  a  mere  garret. 

Mid.  Where  did  you  expect  to  find  ’em  ?  At  Claridge’s  Hotel  ? 
or  the  Langham  ?  Perhaps  you  hoped  to  see  ’em  driving  mail 
feeaXons  in  the  Park,  or  a  lolling  out  of  a  swell  club  winder  in  Pall 
Mall.  Garret  as  you  call  it,  /  don’t  see  as  it’s  so  oncomfortable. 

Sir  G.  (in  broken  voice)  I’m  glad  you  think  so,  sir,  I’m  glad  you 
think  so. 

Mid.  (aside,  in  tone  of  pity)  Poor  dear  boy,  to  think  he  should 
have  come  to  this  ! 

Sir  G.  (ajfectmg  harshness)  Not  that  I  relent  in  any  way.  Oh, 

no,  no. 

Mid.  (assuming  same  tone)  Nor  I,  nor  I  !  As  they  make  their 
beds  so  they  must  lie. 

Bel.  (overhearing)  Bless  your  ’art,  sir,  they  never  make  their 
own  beds. 

Mid.  He-hem  !  (aside)  The  servant.  The  very  image  of  the  gal 
as  waited  on  me  when  I  lived  in  a  attic  in  Pulteney  Street.  It’s 
my  belief  as  nature  keeps  a  mould  for  lodging-house  servant  gals 
and  turns  ’em  out  ’olesale  like  buttons.  She’s  the  identical  same 
gal — same  to  a  smudge,  (to  her)  These  young  men  here,  are  they 
pretty  comfortable  and  all  that? 

Bel.  (aside)  Pumping  !  Who  are  they  ?  (to  them)  Pretty  well 

Mid.  Do  they — do  they  dine  at  home  ? 

Bel.  No — they  breakfusses  ! 

Sir  G.  Oh,  they  breakfusses.  Is  that — or  rather  was  that  their 
breakfast  ? 

Bel.  Yes. 

Mid.  (aside;  taking  up  egg)  Shop  ’uns.  Sixteen  a  shilling.  I 

knows  ’em.  (puts  it  down)  To  think  Charley  should  have  to - 

(breaks  down) 

Sir  G.  (through  his  glasses)  Good  Heavens  !  what  dreadful  look¬ 
ing  butter ! 


40 


“  OUR  BOYS." 


Mid.  ( faintly )  Dossit — my  dear  sir — inferior  Dossit !  [aside) 
Precious  inferior. 

Sir  G.  Dorset ,  man,  Dorset. 

Mid.  [in  rage )  Come  here,  I  say,  you  know — you  may  be  at  home 
in  all  matters  of  //etiquette,  and  gene//allogy — and  such  like,  but 
dammy,  do  let  me  know  something  of  butter.  I  tell  you  that  it’s 
Dossit — Dossit — that’s  what  it  is — and  what’s  more  it’s  a  two  //ounce 
pat ! 

Sir  G.  ( stiffly )  On  such  a  minute  matter  of  professional  detail  I 
cannot,  of  course,  attempt  to  argue,  [goes  up) 

Mid.  [aside)  Now  that’s  all  put  on.  Inside  he’s  a  suppressed 
^earthquake.  He’s  a  longing  to  throw  his  arms  round  his  boy  ; 
but  he  wants  me  to  give  in  first,  [talks  aside  to  Belinda) 

Sir  G.  [aside,  up)  His  rage  is  only  a  safety  valve  for  his  pent-up 
affection  ;  poor  fellow,  he’d  like  me  to  propose  a  truce,  but  it’s 
not  for  a  man  in  my  position  to-  succumb  to  sentiment.  I’ve  only 
to  wait,  and  his  feelings,  which  are  stronger — I  may  say  coarser 
than  mine,  are  sure  to  melt. 

Mid.  (///Belinda)  And  how’s  their  appetites — pretty ’arty? 

Bel.  Fine.  I  often  hear  ’em  telling  one  another  what  they’ve 
had  for  dinner,  but  when  I  see  the  way  they  devours  their  tea — do 
you  know,  I  sometimes  fancy - - 

Mid.  Yes? 

Bel.  As  they’ve  had  no  dinner  at  all. 

Mid.  [after  slight  pause ,  in  a  low  voice)  No — no  dinner  at  all. 
[turns  aside ,  and  places  his  ha7id  at  his  heart  for  a  moment ,  shading 
his  eyes  with  his  other  07ie)  Here — you  seem  a  decent  young  woman 
— here’s  a  half-sovereign — not  a  word.  We’re  friends  of frie7ids  of 
these  young  men.  Speak  out  truthfully.  Did  you  ever  hear  them 
speak  of — of  their  relations  ? 

Sir  G.  Yes,  yes ,  friends,  belongings — a — speak  out! 

Bel.  Oh,  yes,  and  more  than  once,  by  accident — for  I  ain’t  got 
time  for  listening — I  heard  ’em  say  they’d  rather  starve  than  write 
to  ’em. 

Mid.  [overco7ne)  Did  they — did  they  ? 

Sir  G.  [proudly)  That  was  firmness — pride  ! 

Mid.  From  your  point  of  view.  Being  a  tradesman,  7  call  it 
obstinacy. 

Sir  G.  Fostered  in  your  case  by  a  system  of  absurd  laxity. 

Mid,  [aside)  And  that  to  the  man  as  he  called  a  Roman  father! 

Bel.  But  at  one  time — when  one  of  ’em  was  taken  ill - 

MidG'  }  What ! 

Sir  G.  Ill!  Ill,  girl — not  VERY  ill? 

Mid.  [almost fiercely)  Which  was  it? 

Sir  G.  Yes — speak,  woman — which — not — not — the  shorter  one, 
the  one  with  the  light  hair,  who - 


“  OUR  BOYS” 


41 


Bel.  Yes,  him. 

Sir  G.  ( overcone  ;  in  broken  voice')  But  he — he  got  better? 

Bel.  Yes.  Thanks  to  the  other  gent,  who  waited  on  him  hand 
and  foot,  and  never  took  his  clothes  off  for  a  week,  looking  after 
his  friend  and  attending  to  him  for  all  the  world  as  if  he’d  been  his 
brother. 

Sir  Geoffrey  goes  to  Middlewick,  grasps  his  hand,  with  a  sob 
aside — Middlewick  silently  returns  the  grasp ,  each  holding  head 
down . 

Mid.  {after  pause  ;  low  voice)  And — and  the  other — who — who 
helped  his  sick  friend  so — so  noble. 

Bel.  Well,  it’s  my  opinion  he’s  in  a  worse  way  than  the  other, 
though  he  won’t  own  it.  .  • 

Mid.  ( very  faintly ,  and  in  grief )  No — no — ( staggers  slightly  back. 
Sir  Geoffrey  supports  him) 

Sir  G.  ( gently ,  aside  to  Middlewick)  Come — come,  old  friend, 
be  a  man,  ( giving  way)  be  a  man  as — as  /am — don’t  give  way. 
I’m  firm — firmer  than — than  ever.  ( blows  his  nose  to  hide  his  emo¬ 
tion) 

Mid.  What — what  makes  you  fancy  so  ? 

Bel.  Well,  when  he  first  come  he  was  cheerful  and  happy,  but 
bit  by  bit — as  he  got  shabbier — he  grew  quieter  like — and  some¬ 
times  I’ve  spoke  to  him  three  or  four  times  afore  he  seemed  to 

know  I  was  a  speaking,  and - 

Mid.  {aside)  Poor  boy  !  Poor  boy  ! 

Sir  G.  {aside)  And  he  helped  and  nursed  Talbot — I  wish  I’d 
come  here  sooner. 

Bel.  {aside)  Who  can  they  be?  I  don’t  like  leaving ’em  here, 
and  all  the  lodgers’  private  papers  about.  There’s  a  sort  of  County 
Court  look  about  the  short  one.  I’ve  seen  bailiffs  enough  in  my 

time,  and  it  ain’t  a  bit  unlikely  as - 

Sir  G.  Middlewick,  something  must  be  done.  We — we  mustn’t 
forget  ourselves  and  become  maudlin ,  you  know. 

Mid.  {pulling  himself  together)  No,  no,  certainly  not. 

Sir  G.  After  all,  we  did  everything  for  them,  and  they  showed  a 
shameful  return. 

Mid.  {convincing  himself)  Yes,  yes,  so  they  did,  so  they  did. 

Sir  G.  Defied  us. 

Mid.  No  mistake  about  it,  and  when  you  turned  ’em  out - - 

Sir  G.  You  turned  them  out. 

Mid.  You  suggested  it  first. 

Sir  G.  Well,  well,  they’ve  eaten  the  leek. 

Mid.  Ye-es,  there  ain’t  much  nourishment  in  leeks,  though  I 
admit,  relishy. 

Sir  G.  I  see  you’re  giving  way.  {sharply)  You’re  thawing. 


42 


“  OUR  BOYS.” 


Mid.  Me  “  thawring !  ”  not  me.  But  you  was  saying  as  some¬ 
thing  must  be  done,  and  I  says  ditto.  Anonymous,  of  course. 

Sir  G.  Quite  so ;  permit  me  to  arrange  it.  Young  woman, 
there’s  something  in  your  face  thoroughly  honest — the  frequent 
contact  with  cinders,  or  whatever  it  may  be,  cannot  conceal  your 
innate  truthfulness  ;  your  face  is  a  picture,  and  I  am  old-fashioned 
enough  not  to  object  to  a  picture  in  a  black  frame.  I  prefer  it. 

Bel.  [aside)  Soft  sawder.  Something’s  a  coming. 

Sir  G.  In  the  first  place,  you  mustn’t  say  anything  of  our  visit, 
and  when  the  young  men  come  in  you  must  give  them  an  enve¬ 
lope. 

Mid.  Two — two  ^envelopes. 

Bel.  [standing  back)  Not  if  I  know  it.  [aside)  A  summons,  of 
course,  [to  them)  I  don’t  know  neither  of  you  gentlemen,  but  I 
wouldn’t  do  nothing  as  would  bring  any  harm  to  our  third  floorers 
for  nothing  as  you  could  offer  me.  And,  perhaps,  you’ll  be  good 
enough  to  take  back  your  ’arf  crown. 

Sir  G.  [aside)  Remarkable  !  But  I  never  could  understand  the 
lower  classes. 

Mid.  [aside)  If  that  ’arf  sovereign  doesn’t  blossom  into  a  fi-pun 
note  before  the  day’s  out  my  name  ain’t  Middlewick. 

Sir  G.  But  whatever  you  do,  don’t  mention  that — what’s  that? 
some  one  coming  up  the  stairs? 

Bel.  Yes. 

Sir  G.  We  mustn’t  be  seen. 

Mid.  Not  for  the  world.  What’s  this?  [goes  to  door,  l.) 

Bel.  That’s  what  the  gents  calls  their  ^omnium  gatherum — 
where  they  keeps - 

Sir  G.  Is  this  Talbot’s — I  mean,  Mr. - 

Bel.  Chimneys’  room  ?  yes,  but  you  mustn’t - 

Sir  Geoffry  bolts  into  door ,  R.  as  a  tap  is  heard ,  D.  F.,  and  shuts 

door — Middlewick  is  peeping  into  room ,  L.,  when  a  tapping  is 

heard  and  a  loud  He -hem. 

i 

Mid.  Get  us  out  of  this  without  the  lodgers  seeing  us  and  I’ll - 

[bolts  into  room  as  door  in  flat  slowly  opens  ;  he  does  not  see  who  it  is 
— enter  Miss  Clarissa,  dressed  in  walking  dress  and  carrying  a 
reticule) 

Clar.  Young  woman,  are  the  gentlemen  who  lodge  up  here  both 
out  ? 

Bel.  Yes’m.  [aside)  One  is,  and  ’tother’s  a  lying  down  and 
don’t  want  worrying. 

Clar.  Phew!  [sits;  aside)  This  is  the  servant,  the  young  woman, 
Mr.  Warrington,  the  detective,  told  me  was  “  a  good  sort  ” — an 
odd  phrase,  but  expressive.  If  I  hadn’t  employed  him  the  poor 


“  OUR  BOYS.”  43 

young  men  might  have  done  something  dreadful,  with  their  pride 
and  their  sense  of  independence  and  all  that. 

Bel.  Was  you  wanting  to  see  either  of ’em  ? 

Clar.  Well,  no,  not  just  now.  [aside)  Geoffry,  after  discovering 
everything  by  shamefully  intercepting  one  of  Mr.  Warrington’s 
letters,  thinks  to  frighten  me  with  threats  of  even  stopping  my 
allowance  and  turning  me  out  of  his  house  if  I  communicate  with 
Talbot.  Bah  !  he’s  my  own  nephew,  and  he  shan’t  starve  whilst 
his  Aunt  Clarissa’s  got  a  penny  in  the  world.  His  father  may  act 
like  a  brute,  *and  so  may  Mr.  Middlewick,  but — ugh  !  Cattle 
Show ,  indeed.  Coming  to  stare  at  a  collection  of  adipose  sheep,  all 
sleep  and  suet ;  at  islands  of  lean  in  oceans  of  obesity,  called  by 
courtesy  cows  ;  and  a  parcel  of  plethoric  and  apoplectic  pigs,  their 
own  sons  all  the  while  wasting  away  to  shadows,  [brings  out fowl , 
ready  trussed ,  from  reticule )  Mrs.  Patcham’s  out  of  town,  isn’t 
she  ? 

Bel.  Yes’m. 

Clar.  Then  there  won’t  be  any  one  in  the  kitchen? 

Bel.  Not  a  soul,  ’cept  me  and  the  beetles. 

Clar.  Very  good.  Your  fire’s  in,  of  course? 

Bel.  Trust  me.  Missus  and  the  fire  ain’t  never  out  together. 

Clar.  Very  good — then  follow  me. 

Exit,  D.  F.,  carrying  the  fowl ;  leaves  bonnet  on  a  chair. 

Bel.  Here  I  say — [goes  to  D.  F.)  She  don’t  mean  no  harm.  She’s 
a  relation  of  one  of  the  gents,  she  is.  [listens)  She  skips  down  them 

kitchen  stairs  like  a - [a  distant  knock  heard  at  front  door)  These 

breakfast  things  ’ll  be  here  all  day.  Bother  the  knocker!  [takes 
up  things  on  tray  ;  a  door  slams)  Oh,  Mrs.  Radcliffe’s  opened  the 
front  door  for  me.n  A  nice  woman  that.  Always  ready  to  save  a 
poor  girl’s  legs.  Bless  my  ’art,  I  forgot  all  about  them  two  parties 
in  ambush.  Well,  they  must  wait  until  I - 

Enter,  d.  F.,  Violet,  then  Mary. 

Vio.  This  is  the  third  floor,  I  believe.  That  very  nice  old  lady 
who  opened  the  door  said  that - [both  girls  timid) 

Mary.  Oh,  if  you  please,  is  Mr.  Champneys  in  ? 

Vio.  Or  Mr.  Middlewick? 

Bel.  No,  miss. 

Both.  How  are  they  ? 

Bel.  Well,  really — a - 

Vio.  They  are  not  ill — Mr.  Middlewick  is  not  ill  f 

Bel.  No,  miss. 

Vio.  [aside  to  Mary)  Isn’t  it  a  dreadful  place  ? 

Mary.  Poor  dear  Talbot ! 

Vio.  Oh,  Charley  !  [to  Belinda)  Are  they  likely  to  be  long  ? 

BeL  Can’t  say. 


44 


“  OUR  BOYS.” 


Mary.  Are  the  gentlemen  out  much  ? 

Bel.  Yes,  miss. 

Vio.  Late  ? 

Bel.  Don’t  know.  They  both  has  latch  keys. 

Vio.  Mary,  we’ll  wait  till  they  come  in,  and  surprise  them. 

Mary.  If  it’s  proper,  [to  Belinda)  I  suppose  they  never  have 
any  visitors? 

Bel.  Well,  as  to  that ,  you  see - 

Vio.  [aside)  The  girl  seems  confused.  I  almost  wish  I  hadn’t 
come.  I  always  was  of  a  suspicious  nature.  I  can’t  help  it.  Mary 
believes  in  everybody,  but  I — [noise  in  room ,  R.)  What’s  that? 

Bel.  N — nothing,  miss — It’s  a  printing  machine  next  door. 
When  it’s  at  work  it  throbs  like  a  regler  ’ edac he. 

Vio.  Whose  room’s  that? 

Bel.  Mr.  Middlesex’s. 

Mary.  Middl ewick.  I*  ve  a  very  good  mind  to — [moves  towards 
door — Belinda  hastily  jumps  before  it) 

Bel.  You  mustn’t  go  there. 

Mary,  [aside  to  Violet)  Do  you  see  her  alarm? 

Vio.  Am  I  blind  ? 

Mary.  No,  but  perhaps  we  both  have  been,  [screams  at  sight  of 
bonnet  on  chair  ;  in  a  low  voice  to  Violet)  Look — look  there  ! 

Vio.  [in  horror)  A  human  bonnet.  Girl!  [seises  Belinda  by  the 
arm)  Don’t  prevaricate.  Speak  the  truth  and  I’ll  give  you  more 
money  than  you  ever  had  in  your  life  ! 

Bel.  [half  cry  mg)  I  don’t  know  what’s  a  coming  to  everybody 
this  blessed  day — I  wish  missus  would  come  back. 

Vio.  W'hose  is  this  ? 

Bel.  A  lady’s,  of  course. 

Vio.  You  hear,  Mary? 

Mary,  [tearfully)  Oh,  don’t  speak  to  me  ! 

Bel.  But  she’s  a  nice  sort  of.  woman  as  ever  lived  and  she  says 
she’s  as  fond  of - 

Vio.  Of  which  ? 

Bel.  Of  both  of  them. 

Mary.  The  wretch  ! 

Vio.  This  is  no  place  for  us,  Mary,  [noise  heard ,  room ,  l. — with 
a  half  scream)  That’s  not  a  printing  machine. 

Mary.  I  will  see  who — I  mean  what's  in  that  room.  Stand  aside, 
girl. 

Bel.  ’Scuse  me,  that’s  the  gents’  private  apartment — their 
^ominum  gatherum,  and - 

Vio.  Come,  Mary.  We’ve  been  two  fools,  dear,  and  we - 

4s  they  go  towards  D.  F.,  Charley  and  Talbot  enter ;  slight  pause. 

Tal.  Mary! 


“  our  boys: 


45 


Char.  Violet !  Can  I  believe  my  eyes  ! 

Vio.  /  can.  And  my  ears.  So  can  Mary. 

Mary.  Implicitly. 

Char.  But,  Violet,  this  is  so  unexpected - 

Vio.  ( sarcastically )  Evidently. 

Char.  So — so  bewildering.  So  inexplicable,  and — — 

Tal.  So  jolly  rum  ! 

Mary,  {coldly}  Quite  so. 

Char.  But  how — how  did  you - 

Tal.  Did  you  find  us  out? 

Vio.  Never  mind.  Suffice  it  to  say,  Mr.  Middlewick,  that- — - 
Mary.  That  we  have - 

Vio.  “  Found you  out."  [the  girls  curtsey  ;  the  men  dumbfounded ) 
Char.  You  saw  me  in  the  street. 

Vio.  Probably.  We  were  foolish  enough  to  think  you — we 
thought  your  silence  proof  of  your  truth — we  deceived  our¬ 
selves — 

Mary.  Don’t,  Violet!  Where’s  your  spirit?  Let  us  leave  them 
to  their  own  consciences,  if  they  have  any.  This  is  evidently  a 
well-trained  confederate.  Henceforth  we  are  strangers. 

Vio.  Utter  strangers,  [girls  exeunt,  d.  f.) 

Tal.  [after  slight  pause )  What  have  you  been  saying  to  those 
ladies  ? 

Bel.  Nothink.  But  they  called  me  a  "  coffederate.”  Now  a 
confederate’s  a  man  as  knows  the  conjuror  and  says  he  doesn’t,” 

and  I’m  not  a  going  to  bear  it.  Look  here,  ladies,  I - 

Exit,  D.  F. 


Charley  and  Talbot  look  at  each  other. 

Char.  This  is  some  conspiracy.  Somebody’s  been  vilifying  us 
— they  shan’t  leave  without  one  word  of  explanation,  though. 

Exit,  D.  F. 

Talbot  goes  to  fire-place ,  his  back  to  the  door  of  the  r»07n  where  his 

father  is. 

Tal.  The  girl’s  don’t  mean  it — can’t  mean  it.  Unless  our  deter¬ 
mined  silence  has  seemed  suspicious,  and — slightly  altering  the 
poet — suspicion  ever  haunts  the  female  mind — always  admitting 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  female  mind,  which  I’m  beginning  to 
doubt, — [leans  head  on  arm  on  mantlepiece ) 

Sir  Geoffry  opens  door  a  little ;  it  hides  him  from  Talbot. 

Sir  G.  [to  himself )  They’ve  all  gone.  Not  one  syllable  could  I 
distinguish  ;  but  women’s  voices,  and  at  high  words,  were  only  too 
evident.  This  comes  of  leaving  two  head-strong  lads  to  the  temp- 


46 


“  OUR  BOYS.” 


tations  of  the  town.  Oh,  Talbot,  I  knew  you  were  not  a  genius, 
but  I  did  hope  you  would  never  forget  you  were  a  gentleman  ! 

Charley  re-enters  quickly ;  as  he  does  so  Sir  Geoffry  steps  back , 
nearly  closing  the  door ;  the  side  of  the  room  is  set  obliquely  so  that 
he  is  perfectly  visible  to  the  audience ,  though  unseen  by  those  on  the 
stage — Middle  wick  enters  a  little  way . 

Char.  Well,  upon  my  life,  they’re  a  pretty  pair. 

Mid.  [aside)  Ah,  I  was  sure  I  heard  two  of  ’em. 

Char.  ( flinging  himself  into  a  chair )  A  couple  of  beauties,  I  do 
think. 

Mid.  [aside)  So  do  I.  A  nice  noisy  couple  whoever  they  were. 
Pretty  acquaintances  for  two  young  chaps  as  bragged  of  their 
fidelity ! 

Tal.  Fact  is  they’ve  got  tired  of  waiting  for  us.  They  see  we’re 
poor — and  are  likely  to  keep  so.  What  a  confounded  draft  there 
is  from  that — ( goes  to  close  door  of  his  room ,  r.  ;  Sir  Geoffry 
advances',  Middlewick  enters  further  simultaneously ;  both  indig¬ 
nant) 

Mid.  Sir  Geoffry,  you  heard,  of  course. 

Sir  G.  Not  a  word  could  I  distinguish,  for  my  hearing  is  utterly 
failing  me.  But  you  heard  women’s  voices? 

Mid.  Distinctly — even  through  the  row  of  some  confounded 
machine — a  printer’s,  I  fancy — next  door. 

Sir  G.  Though  we  could  not  distinguish  a  word  your  female 
friends  said,  some  of  yours  reached  us,  and  but  too  plainly  indi¬ 
cated  the  familiar  terms  which — Oh,  Talbot,  I  had  hoped  there 
would  be  still  something  of  dignity  and  self-denial  to  qualify  your 
absurdly  Quixotic  conduct,  but  I  was  mistaken.  From  your  birth 
I  mapped  out  your  future,  and  hoped  and  prayed  it  should  be  a 
bright  one,  and  now  I  find  my  son,  my  only  child,  who  should 
have  been  my  joy  and  pride,  prove-  himself  not  only  wilful  and 
wrong-headed — I  could  have  overlooked  that — but  a  profligate ,  and 
that,  Talbot  Champneys,  I  never  will  forgive. 

Char.  Don’t  speak,  Talbot;  let  me.  So,  sirs,  you  have  been 
playing  the  spy  upon  your  sons. 

Mid.  Don’t  exasperate  me,  Charles  Middlewick,  and  no  smug¬ 
faced  shamming.  We’d  hunted  you  out,  ready  to  forgive  every¬ 
thing,  but — a — there — I  knew  you  were  thoughtless,  careless,  reck - 
less  even,  but  I  never  dreamt  you  had  a  bit  of  vice  in  your  whole 
nature. 

Char,  [aside)  This  is  too  much  ;  the  last  straw  breaks - 

Tal.  Who  knows  this  is  the  last  straw?  After  what  I’ve  heard 
recently  I’m  prepared  for  an  entire  stack. 

Char.  You  are  not  the  only  people  who  have  misjudged  us. 

Tal.  No  ;  others  who  were  here  but  recently  actually - - 


“ OUR  BOYS.”  47 

Sir  G.  Pray,  sir,  spare  us  the  opinions  of  such  persons.  Talbot, 
I — I  blush  for  you. 

Mid.  There’s  no  shame  in  you.  You’re  worse  than  your  com¬ 
panions  who  were  here  just  now. 

Tal.  ( sharply )  What  do  you  mean  by  that? 

Mid.  Eh? 

Tal.  Ladies  whom  you  will  mention  with  respect,  if  you  please. 
If  we  have  been  ill-treated  by  them  it  is  not  for  you,  no,  sir,  nor 
you  (to  his  father )  to  speak  slightingly  of  them  before  us. 

Sir  G.  (aside)  Brazening  it  out.  To  think  that  six  months  in 
this  abominable  city  should  have  obliterated  all  sense  of  shame, 
all  sense  of  self-respect.  Oh,  London,  London,  what  a  lengthy  list 
of  such  sad  cases  lies  at  your  debasing  door  ! 

Char.  For  my  part,  as  regards  Miss  Melrose - 

Mid.  Don’t  mention  her.  (aside)  How  dare  he  speak  of  that 
regler  lady  and  true  woman  in  the  very  teeth  of  such—  bah  ! 

Char.  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  still  bear  a  resentment  in  that 
quarter. 

Tal.  And  as  I  should  never  care  for  any  woman  but  Mary - 

Sir  G.  (indignantly)  You  insult  me  by  mentioning  her  name  at 
such  a  time. 

Tal.  And  as  all  is  over  between  us - 

Sir  G.  Ha  !  ha !  I  should  think  so.  Eh,  Middlewick? 

Mid.  Depend  upon  it,  the  cousins  know  all. 

Sir  G.  Ay,  ay,  trust  a  woman  for  finding  out. all  she  wants,  and 
sometimes  a  deuced  deal  more.  This  accounts  for  their  suddenly 
departing  for  the  Continent  last  week. 

Mid.  Of  course;  where  no  doubt  they’re  endeavoring  to  dispel 
their  sorrow. 

Sir  G.  Just  so.  In  the  vortex  of  Parisian  society. 

Mid.  Strolling  up  and  down  the  bully-vards  and  the  bord  de 
boolong.  Showing  them  sailer-faced  foreigners  what  good,  ’ole- 
some  looking  English  gals  are. 

Sir  G.  Yes,  yes.  (warming)  I  can  see  them. 

Mid.  (working  it  up)  So  can  I. 

Sir  G.  The  dear  creatures!  That  puss,  Mary,  has  quite  wound 
herself  round  my  heart.  An  artful,  winning  little  beauty. 

Mid.  And  as  for  the  ’aughty  one,  we’ve  got  that  friends  I 
wouldn’t  see  her  wronged  or  insulted  for — Ugh  ! 

Sir  G.  Ah  !  (with  exclamations  of  disgust ,  they  go  up) 

Charley  and  Talbot  gaze  blankly  at  each  othert  both  stupefied. 

Tal.  Charley,  does  your  father  drink  ? 

Char.  No.  Is  lunacy  hereditary  in  your  family? 

Tal.  Never  heard  of  it.  I  say,  football’s  a  capital  game,  for  the 


48 


“  OUR  BOYS?’ 


feet.  But  the  ball  has  a  somewhat  invidious  and  one-sided  sort  of 
place  of  it,  hasn’t  he  ?  I  don’t  care  for  any  more  abuse. 

Char.  Nor  I.  [to  the  fathers]  As  we  appear  by  some  unfortunate 
means  of  which  we  know  nothing  to  have  grievously  offended 
everybody,  explanations  are,  of  course,  impossible,  [with  solem¬ 
nity  and  decision)  But  as — before  such  an  undertaking  as - 

Tal.  Hear!  hear!  Such  an  undertaking  as  we  are  about  to — in 
short,  to  undertake. 

Char.  Quiet  and  uninterrupted  companionship  is  desirable  in 
order  to  finally  settle  our  plans  regarding  emigration,  [both  the 
fathers  start) 

Tal.  Just  so.  And  you,  having  once  turned  us  out,  must  not 

feel  surprised  if  we - [shrugs  his  shoulders ,  and  hands  Sir  Geof- 

fry  his  hat ) 

Mid.  Em — emigration  ! 

Sir  G.  Are  you  mad,  sir?  Do  you  know  the  time  of  the  year — 
winter? 

Mid.  Why,  confound  it,  Charley — I  mean,  Charles — you’re  not 
going  to  leave  me — to  leave  England,  I  mean  ?  What  are  you 
both  dreaming  of? 

Tal.  Nothing  now ;  we’ve  waked  up. 

Sir  G.  And  where  would  you - 

Char.  Queensland,  or  else,  perhaps - 

Mid.  Charley,  I  can’t  bear  this  ;  you’re  a  driving  me  desprit.  If 
— if  you  go  you’ll — you’ll  break  my  heart !  Darnmy,  I  can’t  play 
the  Roman  father  no  longer  !  [sinks  into  a  chair ,  up,  l.) 

Sir  G.  [aside)  He’s  given  in — I  knew  he  would.  If  he  hadn't,  I 
must  have  done  so,  and  it’s  best  as  it  is.  He-hem  !  We  have  been — 
a — hasty — perhaps,  when  we  were  concealed  in  those  rooms — a — 
[breaks  down)  Talbot — Talbot — (Talbot  looks  at  him — he  immedi¬ 
ately  becojnes  frigid)  In  my  case  much  is  at  stake.  You  are  my 
son — my  heir — [with  severity)  I — I  command  you  to  give  up  this 
mad  notion,  [he  is  standing  in  a  proud  and  authoritative  attitude — 
a  contrast  to  Middlewick,  who  is  sitting  crushed  and  tearful) 

Mid.  Charley — I — I — implore  YOU  !  [slight  pause  on  picture,  the 
young  men  C.) 

Tal.  [coldly)  I  regret  my  inability  to  obey  you. 

Char,  [same  tone)  Talbot  has  replied  for  both. 

Sir  G.  [almost  overcome)  And  this — this  is  the  result  of  our 
much  vaunted  systems.  Even  a  rod  of  iron  will - 

Violet  and  Mary  have  entered,  D.  F. 

Vio.  ( doivn ,  R.)  Will  rust,  Sir  Geoffry. 

Mary,  [down,  L  )  And  the  truest  steel  may  fail  you  when  most 
you  may  rely  on  it. 

Vio.  Oh,  Charley,  forgive  me — we  know  all  now. 


“OUR  BOYS.”  49 

Mary.  And  we’re  so  ashamed  of  ourselves!  [the  young  couples 
talk  eagerly ) 

Sir  G.  ( looks  amazed ;  to  girls)  Why — why  aren’t  you  on  the 
Continent  ? 

Mary.  Why  aren’t  you  at  the  Cattle  Show  ? 

Vio.  (to  Charley)  I  never  imagined  you  saw  me  in  the  street. 

Mid.  Here,  what’s  this?  Why  ain’t  you  abroad?  Yes,  abroad? 
( to  Sir  Geoffry)  I’ll  be  hanged  if  we  ain’t. 

Vio.  Fancy  the  two  old  gentlemen  hiding  themselves  so  absurdly, 
and  our  having  such  horrible - 

Mary.  But  highly  natural - 

Tal.  No,  no,  ^-natural - 

Mary.  Suspicions. 

Mid.  We  can’t  have  been,  and  yet  they  seem  to  be.  Ha  !  ha! 
(gives  a  violent  start  on  seeing  Clarissa’s  bonnet) 

Tal.  Upon  my  life,  Charley,  that  jolly  old  firework,  your  father, 
ought  to  be  put  out . 

Mid.  What’s  that,  eh ? 

Sir.  G.  (seizing  it)  Yes  !  No  lady  was  ever  seen  in  such  a 
monstrosity  as  that.  Combining  as  it  does  the  concentrated  incon¬ 
gruity  of  Covent  Garden  Market  with  the  accumulated  imbecility 
of  the  Burlington  Arcade. 

The  girls  look  surprised  at  the  young  men,  who  can  t  explain. 

Vio.  It  is  a  bonnet. 

Mary.  And  a  hideous  one. 

Mid.  The  question  is,  whose  is  it  ? 

Enter  Clarissa,  d.  f. 

Clar.  Mine,  if  you  please — don’t  crush  it.  (comes  down ,  takes  it) 

Girls.  Miss  Champneys  ! 

Tal.  Aunt ! 

Sir  G.  (severe  again)  So,  Clarissa — madam,  you  not  only  come 
up  to  town  against  my  express  commands — but — but  in  an  article 
of  attire  which  is  simply - 

Mid.  Loud — oh,  yes,  you’re  a  highly  sensible  woman,  but  it  is 
loud. 

Clar.  That’s  your  opinion.  /  paid  Mr.  Warrington  to  discover 
my  nephew,  and  notwithstanding  your  threats,  Geoffry,  I  preferred 
to  brave  your  anger  rather  than  share  your  regret,  when  you  had 
perhaps  found  your  son — the  victim  of  a  severe  father’s  system — 
either  in  the  streets  or  gone  Heaven  knows  where.  My  dear 
nephew — Mr.  Middlewick,  ( shakes  hands)  I’ve  heard  how  you 
behaved  to  him.  But  you’re  two  scarecrows.  I’ve  got  a  fowl  at 
the  kitchen  fire,  and  as  it’s  only  enough  for  two,  we’ll  all  go  round 
to  luncheon  at  Sir  Geoffry ’s  hotel,  whilst  you - 


50 


“  OUR  BOVS.” 


Mid.  Polish  off  the  poultry.  Brayvo  ! 

Sir  G.  ( severely )  What ,  sir  ? 

Mid.  It’s  no  good,  don’t  look  severe,  Sir  Geoffry.  ( goes  to  him ) 
It  don’t  suit  you. 

Sir  G.  ( chafing )  But  my  own  sister — a  Champneys,  cooking  a 
fowl  in  a  lodging-house  kitchen,  and  I’m  positively  certain  spoiling 
it — defying  my  authority  and - 

Vio.  ( has  slipped  her  arm  through  his)  Sir  Geoffry,  dear  Sir 
Geoffry,  don’t  you  think  we’ve  all  been  a  little  wrong  ? 

Sir  G.  [pleased)  Eh? 

Vio.  You,  especially  ? 

Sir  G.  [huffed)  He-hem  ! 

Vio.  And  that  we  all  ought  to  beg  each  other’s  pardons? 

Mary,  [other  side)  Yes,  dear  Sir  Geoffry,  and  promise  to  forget 
the  past,  and  never  do  so  any  more  ? 

Vio.  Eh,  Sir  Geoffry  ?  [squeezing his  arm) 

Mary.  Eh,  dear  Sir  Geff.  ?  [same  business) 

Sir  G.  [pleased,  and  unable  to  deny  it)  Ha  !  ha !  Sir  Geff. 
indeed  !  [looks  at  each  admiringly)  You’re  a  couple  of  syrens.  I 
feel  you  would  make  me  forgive  anything ■ — except  that  bonnet. 

Char.  I  must  own  it  staggered  me.  I  knew  it  couldn’t  be 
Belinda’s. 

Both  Girls,  [drop  Sir  Geoffry’s  arm)  Who’s  Belinda? 

Tal.  Ha  !  ha  !  A  slave. 

Sir  G.  What? 

Tal.  Slave  of  the  ring — comes  when  you  pull  the  bell,  you  know, 
(enter  Belinda)  One  of  the  best  girls  in  England,  and  the  best 
nurse  in  the  universe,  as  /  well  know. 

Bel.  That  fowl’s  a  frizzling  itself  to  regler  fiddle-strings.  Why, 
everybody  seems  to  know  everybody  else. 

Mid.  [beckons  her  to  him)  Here.  Have  you— have  you  got  a 
young  man  ?  A  sweetheart,  you  know  ? 

Bel.  A  young  man  !  He  !  he  !  And  me  two-and-twenty  ! 

Mid.  Just  so.  What  is  he  ?  I  mean,  what’s  his  business  ?  How 
does  he  get  his  living  ? 

Bel.  He’s  a  butterman. 

Mid.  Is  he  though?  Tell  him  to  call  round  to-morrow  at  that 
address,  and  I’ll  buy  him  the  best  business  in  the  Boro’. 
(Belinda goes  up,  dazed)  Sir  Geoffry,  they’re  our  own  again — our 
boys. 

Sir  G.  No,  no,  somebody  else’s.  [points  to  the  young  couples 
spooning) 


Clarissa  is  explaining  to  Belinda. 

Mid.  All  in  good  time,  [laughing)  You  and  your  rod  of  iron, 
bless  your  ’art,  it  wasn’t  a  bar  of  soap. 


“  OUR  BOYS.”  51 

Sir  G.  [shaking  hands)  Ha!  ha!  I’m  afraid  so,  and  you— you  a 
father  of  ancient  Rome  !  Ha  !  ha  !  Greece  is  more  in  your  line. 

Vio.  [to  Charley)  Yes,  yes,  Charley,  I  know  I  was  blind  to  my 
own  shortcomings,  and  was  haughty,  headstrong,  and  capricious, 
whilst  you,  Mary - 

Mary.  I  don’t  think  I’ve  been  anything  in  particular,  and  if  I 
have  I’m  not  going  to  admit  it. 

Tal.  Quite  right,  Mary,  nothing  like  being  thoroughly  satisfied 
with  yourself y  unless  it’s  being  more  than  satisfied  with  me. 

Sir  G.  Clarissa,  I  was  foolish  just  now.  I  beg  your  pardon. 
Talbot,  dear  boy — [shakes  hands )  Charles — [shakes  hands )  I — I  see 
my  error. 

Mid.  Ha  !  ha  ! 

Sir  G.  [stiffly  and  abruptly  at  him)  And  other  people’s,  [aside) 
I’m  so  happy  I — but  I  mustn't  admit  it — a — yet.  [to  them)  We 
haven’t  understood  each  other,  borne  with  each  other,  we  haven’t 
shown  sufficient  of  the  glorious  old  principle  of  “  Give  and  take.” 
Sister,  boys  and  girls,  old  friend,  [to  Middlewick)  hot  tempers, 
hasty  judgments,  extreme  crotchets,  thick-skinned  prejudice, 
theory  and  rule  run  rampant,  ignoring  the  imperfections  of  poor 
human  nature — these,  henceforth,  we  throw  overboard  and  rise  to 
brighter  realms,  even  as  the  aspiring  aeronaut  flings  away  his  heavy 
ballast  and  floats  serenely  through  the  cloudless  sky. 


Melody  in  Orchestra  swells  as 

CURTAIN  FALLS  ON  PICTURE. 


.  THE  DEACON. 

COMEDY-DRAMA  IN  5  ACTS,  BY  HORACE  C.  DALE. 

Price,  25  cents. 

A  play  of  the  Alvin  Joslyn  type,  easily  staged,  and  can  be  presented  in  any  hall 
Abounds  in  humorous  incidents  and  ludicrous  situations,  with  a  great  deal  of  taking 
farcical  “business."  The  characters  are  all  life-like  and  good.  Capital  parts  for  old 
man,  old  maid,  negro,  country  boy  and  soubrette.  This  play  has  met  with  phenomenal 
success  under  its  author’s  direction,  and  is  confidently  recommended  by  him  to  give 
general  satisfaction  where  a  mirthful  comedy-drama  is  wanted. 

CAST  OF  CHARACTERS. 

Deacon  Thornton,  with  a  passion  for  lemonade  with  a  stick  in  it.  j 


, General  utility ,  played  by  one  person. 


Eccentric  com¬ 
old  tnan . 

George  Graef,  Mrs.  Thornton’s  nephew,  falsely  accused . .....Juvenile  lead. 

George  Darrah,  alias  Matt  Wheeler,  a  Gambler . Genteel  villain. 

James  Read,  Darrah’s  Friend. 

Pedro,  an  organ  grinder. 

Policeman,  useful  and  ornamental. 

Parson  Brownlow,  who  ties  the  knot. 

Pete,  always  in  mischief. . ; . Negro  comedian. 

Billy,  the  Deacon’s  attendant . Country  boy. 

Mrs.  Thornton,  the  Deacon’s  sister-in-law . First  walking  lady. 

Helen,  her  daughter,  who  has  a  narrow  escape . Second  “  “ 

Miss  Amelia  Fawcett,  attached  to  the  Deacon . Comic  old  maid . 

Mrs.  Darrah,  the  gambler’s  wife . . Character  heavy. 

Nellie,  Darrah’s  child . Juveviile  character . 

Daisy  Dean,  pert  and  good-looking . Soubrette. 

Violinist,  Villagers,  etc. 

Period,  the  Present.  Locality,  Eastville,  Va.  Time  of  Playing,  2 x/2  hours. 

SYNOPSIS  OP  INCIDENTS. 

Act  I. — Scene  Eastville  Hotel  garden.  The  Robbery.  Pete  delivers  an  invitation. 
“  By  golly  he’s  mad  already."  Meeting  of  Graef  and  Wheeler.  “  Pm  no  coward ; 
I'll  either  live  down  the  stigma  attached  to  it  or  die  in  the  attempt."  A  promised  re¬ 
ward.  The  Deacon’s  Arrival.  “Pm  a  gentleman,  sir!"  “Be  sure  to  put  a  little 
stick  in  it."  The  Deacon  gets  hilarious.  Pete  imposes  upon  Billy.  The  Deacon  is 
sick.  “  Oh,  my  head,  my  head  !  ”  Triumph  No.  1.  Curtain. 

Act  II.  Scene. — Mrs.  Thornton’s  sitting-room.  Pete  promotes  himself.  “  I  spruced 
up  to  do  de  honors  ob  de  ’casion."  Miss  Amelia  is  anxious  about  her  “  dear  little  pet." 
“  Ze  dog  or  ze  money."  “  Horrid  men,  but  dear  doggy  woggy."  The  Deacon’s  recep¬ 
tion.  The  Deacon  makes  a  mistake.  “Everything  lovely  admires  me."  “Were  you 
and  Bill  married  by  candle  light  ?  ”  “  Deacon,  you  are  drunk."  Miss  Amelia  pre¬ 

scribes  for  the  Deacon.  Triumph  No.  2.  Curtain. 

Act  III. — Scene  1. — A  street.  Mother  and  child.  “Mamma  will  we  never  reach 
papa’s  house?"  The  meeting  of  husband  and  wife.  “  What,  you  here  ?  "  Accused 
of  many  bitter  things.  Left  in  the  streets. 

Scene  2. — Geo.  Graef ’s  lodgings.  Graef  meditates.  The  finding  of  the  diamonds. 
Meeting  of  Graef  and  Mrs.  Darrah.  “Minnie  is  this  you?"  “  Welcome  little  coz." 
The  photo.  “  Yes,  alas,  too  well  !  ” 

Scene  3. — A  street.  Pete  has  a  dream  and  persuades  Billy  to  accompany  him  on  an 
expedition. 

Scene  4. — A  wood.  Treasure  hunters.  “  Oh,  Lor’  !  Pm  dead."  “  Let’s  go  home  and 
git  the  mules  "  The  Treasure  is  found.  Caught  by  the  spirits.  Tableau.  Curtain. 

Act  IV. — Scene. — Mrs.  Thornton’s  sitting-room.  Daisy  shows  Pete  what  she  would 
do.  Miss  Amelia’s  heart  is  in  a  flutter.  “  I  know  I’ll  refuse  him."  Pete  at  his  tricks, 
“Then  kiss  me."  Consternation.  Pete  continues  his  tricks.  'Tis  he,  by  Jerusalem. 
The  Deacon  taken  by  surprise.  Again  there  is  consternation.  “  I  was  insulted  by  a 
colored  woman."  Billy  creates  excitement.  “  Thank  Heaven !  At  last  I  enfold 
thee."  Curtain. 

Act  V. — Scene. — Mrs.  Thornton’s  sitting-room.  The  Deacon  in  Clover.  An  inter¬ 
ruption.  “  Hang  the  parson  !"  The  interrupted  marriage  ceremony.  “That  man  has 
a  wife  living."  “’Tis  false!"  An  attack.  Pete  to  the  rescue.  “  No,  it  is  a  forgery." 
The  villain  foiled.  Arrest  of  Geo.  Darrah.  Reinstatement  of  Graef.  Refusal  of  a 
hand.  The  Deacon  is  obstinate.  “I  can’t  help  it  Minnie,  I  mean  it.”  Mrs.  Darrah 
and  Nellie  forgiven.  “  Oh,  Deacon,  don’t  be  so  silly."  The  Deacon  made  happy. 
Curtain.  >►. 

Copies  mailed,  post-paid,  to  any  address,  on  receipt  of' the  price.<%Q 


HAROLD  ROORBACK,  Publisher,  132  Nassau  St., 


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